


Stormbringer

by NeverAgainEvan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackfyre Plot, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Canon Divergence - War of The Five Kings, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rhaegar's Rebellion - Freeform, Silver-Haired Jon Snow - Freeform, The Golden Company, Too Many Original Characters, the Dance of Dragons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-02-10 14:43:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 68,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18662485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverAgainEvan/pseuds/NeverAgainEvan
Summary: On a snowy day in Winterfell a royal wedding occurs. The beginning of the fall and rise of House Targaryen.





	1. Prologue: the Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to whoever reads this, this is a long story i have planing for a while. So enjoy. Also if anyone wants to be a beta it would be appreciated, i need two sets of eyes for this project.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys burns her King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to whoever reads this, this is a long story i have planing for a while. So enjoy. Also if anyone wants to be a beta it would be appreciated, i need two sets of eyes for this project.
> 
> This is the new prologue to Stormbringer, with some of the magical nature the story will take on way long down the line.

Prologue: The Burning

 

Rhaenys had gone to sleep two nights before ready to murder her husband. A man so stubborn the Wall would melt before he relented in matters if he felt and knew were not honorable or right. Her husband so reluctant to do political subterfuge. She scoffed thinking of how he could have survived without her so far. How have they made it so far? She, _Rhaenys_ , _her_ was the reason they've lasted so far, for the last four years of war has had to do the dirty work for her husband, is how they made it so far.

 

She had men murdered in their sleep, prisoners tortured, princesses and ladies captured in ways unbefitting their stations. She has ended houses, houses that have stood by the Targaryens for three-hundred years and have roots thousands of years before Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters landed at King’s Landing. She has ripped babes from their mother’s arms.

 

A crime that has had her crying to the Seven and Old Gods for forgiveness ever since then. _I’m so sorry, Nessie_. The look of pure terror and understanding that crossed her friends face before she was executed.

 

Rhaenys did that, she ended the Blackfyre spy in court. She alone had saved her husband’s throne and crown countless times.

 

Why could he have not agreed with her just this once, months ago they had agreed that the Blackfyre threat must be dealt with, two days ago he argued her over it.

 

_“This will come back to bite you your grace,” she had mocked him in her anger. Her husband’s face was twisted in rage and disgust._

_The idea of what she had said to do, had left a thick mucus of disgust in her husband’s mouth she knew. It felt like bile in her own. She knew all about her husband and loved him dearly, with all her heart, but sometimes his reluctance to go against what his uncle taught him frustrated her beyond reasoning._

_“I will not kill children.” His tone final. “We have more pressing issues north of the Wall, my uncle –.”_

_She interrupted him. “And when those children are grown? They are hiding now but I will not have Daeron face your failures.” She had spat at him._

He stormed from the room then, and later that night what she ordered him to do came from him alone. _Daggers in the dark_ , the Red Witch whispered to her not even half a year ago when they took King’s Landing from Cersei and her false brother Tommen and put his wife into place. Reminding her of the ghost who said the same thing years ago. A time when her world was peaceful but on the brink of disaster.

 

The Red Witch had run from King’s Landing as soon as the bells had rung. She knew Rhaenys would have had her killed. If the witch was as smart and had as much power as she claimed, Rhaenys hoped for her sake she would be near the Neck by now on her merry way to the Wall.

 

Rhaenys clutched the smooth black stone balustrade in grief, her eyes felt dry. They stole her husband, her _home_ , her comfort. For that she would never forgive them. Even the Red Witch who knew and did nothing to stop it.

 

The sound of hammers on nails, pounding them into wood, brought her eyes to below, in the great sand pit.

 

Rhaenys watched silently as they built the pyre in the ruins of the great sand field of the Dragonpit from her place high in the ruinous structure. It reminded her of the fighting pits in Slaver’s Bay, with stands on top of stands and viewing boxes. Stands for the lowly dragon keepers to watch over the dragons as they played and the more ornate viewing boxes for the Targaryen kings of old.

 

The viewing box she watched from had been mostly unscathed by the fires of the Storming of the Dragonpit and the burnings of bodies during the Great Spring Sickness by Bloodraven. Though weather and time had left its mark. The black stone was smooth and covered with thick dust. Rat nests and spider webs ruled here till her guards cleared it for her.

 

She remembers what feels like years ago, when her father wanted to rebuild the Dragonpit. He wanted to rebuild it into another palace, or a council building. Almost a decade ago when he first began to renovate King’s Landing. Pycelle and Aelor had come together and clamped down on that idea. The cost of the improved sewers, streets, and gates, and walls would be an ungodly amount of coin already they argued.

 

Rhaegar was convinced but his drive to rebuild it not dampened. He urged Jon Arryn and Aelor to find a way to get more coin. More coin came in the hands of the miracle coin purse Petyr Baelish. _What a jape that became,_ Rhaenys thought, she was just glad Petyr and his plans were done for. The civil war in the Vale had been all his doing, and the ramifications of it was still felt. Even here in King’s Landing it was felt.

 

“It is time, my queen,” Ser Arthur spoke from behind, voice soft as a summer breeze.

 

When she turned, she found the knight to be on the brink of collapse, even without his armor. His shoulders sagged, face haggard, golden hair stringy and oily, eyes sunken deep, deep as the pools beneath the heart tree in Winterfell.

 

Ser Arthur was late to their cause, but he came, nonetheless. And now he has lost three of his favorite people. Rhaegar to a sickness, Aegon to a sunk ship, and Aemon to daggers. He had already pledged that Daeron would be the most heavily guarded king he would ever guard.

 

She nodded imperceptibly and took his arm as he led her down flight after flight of the melted serpentine steps down to the upper level of the Dragonpit, where the great sand field lay. Below them and the sand it was caverns and tunnels fit for a dragon.

 

Down below among the sand stood the closest people to her and Aemon. The people had visited the king in the Sept of Baelor this morning, and the lords and ladies and knights and merchants had visited this noon, but the sunset ceremony was for the family and friends she had declared in court.

 

The truth was that this was an event that would be regarded as witchcraft to many at court. To Rhaenys it was vengeance for her husband.

 

As she walked past the score of people in attendance head held high to her children who were standing by Daenerys, she could see the king resting in eternal sleep. Her husband. Her half-brother. Her brother. The love of her life. Her _Jon._ Lay there unmoving in peace. His silver eyes closed in eternal sleep, and his wild curly silver hair streaked with brown cut short like it usually was in those long old summer days. He was dressed in his finest armor. The one she had made for him when he participated in the Tourney of the Hand. Midnight black armor chased with red and gold, and three dragon heads of orange, white, and red rested upon his helm tucked under his arm. They Silent Sisters had switched out his practical breastplate with the white direwolf and red dragon argent inlaid into the armor for the ornate ruby three-headed dragons that was reminiscent of their father’s own armor.

 

She had cried all her tears already, when word was brought yesterday morn. Two days ago, he was fine, now he was dead, _daggers in the dark,_ the ghost and the Red Witch whispered in her ear. But the ghost lied, here lays King Aemon I Targaryen, her _Jon,_ dead, their three children beside her, bawling. Her twins, Rhaella and Aerea clutching each other, but her son, Daeron watched with pale, dead eyes, tears streaming, always silent with his pain like his father, and her father.

 

He had tried talked to his father as if he asleep for a long time till she realized he didn’t know what death meant. “Papa, I held my first sword today,” he cried. “Ser Ossy said it was my duty to learn. Papa? Are you listening?” Dany released a sob at the words.

 

The thrice-damned ghost promised Jon and her would have seven children, and she would outlive them all but one. But there’s only been four, her stillborn Eddard included, the one stolen from her.

 

A weak constant sob was to her left. Her grandmother, the Queen Dowager Rhaella, had fallen to her knees the minute she walked onto the sandy field, her tears still rang in the private family gathering.

 

Viserys was holding her upright but she kept calling for her grandson, her third son to wake up. Arya Stark grabbed Viserys when it was clear Rhaella needed her space. Viserys clutched his daughter Rhaenyra close after taking her from his second wife.

 

 _He was a damn traitor too. But Aemon had risen up his uncle. Even if he called himself king years ago and sided with the black dragon after._ Aemon had forgiven him and allowed him to keep his daughter (after we returned her to him) and married him to his sister who was his cousin, to ensure his loyalty.

 

Robb Stark and his wife were silent in the corner with grey quiet faces, Sansa was holding her husband but not putting her weight on him to spare his crippled leg. Dany was heartbroken as well. Long ago she was jealous of her and Sansa Stark, but now all she had was affection, for they cared for her husband too. Others were there too. Myrcella and Tommen, now the lady and lord of Casterly Rock after Cersei had been displaced months earlier, Maegon, the Warrior Reborn some say, was bawling his eyes out not unlike her twins, Maegelle was stoic beside Maelor and Edric and Norwin, Jon’s former squires, who were both watching all with unhidden pain.

 

The only person she wished was here was Ser Gunter, also Howald, and Corliss and many others who could not make it for duties elsewhere or had died in the conflicts up to this point.

 

Her great-uncle Aelor came to stand by her now. “I believe it is time, your grace.” He loved Aemon above all it seemed. Even his sons Aeryk, Maegon, and Maelor, and daughter Maegelle. Aelor had taught her husband sums and had given him his first lesson in court, among other things. He was quiet and desolate; he had seen so much death already, lived too long and held too many bleeding boys.

 

She knew it was time. Of course, she knew, she had ruled ably for years on her father’s council then her husbands for nigh on a decade now, but a part of her wanted to look on a little longer. Morbidly she caressed his face, he looked so much like father but also distinctly himself, perhaps like how Lyanna Stark would have looked. She placed one last loving kiss on his brow, the one she didn’t get two days ago when he stormed out of their chambers.

 

Her kiss upon the brow of Aems turned to a frightful sob. “Dany,” she called as she backed away from the pyre like everyone else.

 

“Are you sure this will work,” Robb Stark said darkly to no one in particular.

 

Maelor stood strong and tall, “King Aemon and Maester Aemon said it would work.”

 

“Dragons,” Sansa whispered. “By the gods, if it works.”

 

“It must, it must work.” Aelor’s voice was tired but sure. “Rhaegar knew, and Aegon knew after he came to his senses, and Aemon knew. The true war was north. We need dragons for the true war.”

 

Rhaenys ignored their talk. Rhaella had begun to cry so loud she couldn’t think, Aerea clutched her twin but it did nothing for the tears. Daeron held her leg as tight as a three going on four-year-old could.

 

Dany and several guards had grabbed the three dragon eggs and placed them upon the pyre almost reverently. Dany made sure they were equally spaced a part. Then she nodded gravely, and the guards nodded back. They rushed off into a dark corridor and brought out the two of the five attackers that survived Ser Arthur’s blinding rage.

 

One was as skinny as a stick and taller than most, the other stocky when healthy but now his skin and former muscle sagged off him like fat. The skinny tall one’s beard was covered in mud, shit, and piss, but under the brown the black was still there. Slightly grey in some areas, but still black as night in others. This was the man who had tortured her, tortured her whole life, and had continued to do so now.

 

He killed her mother and raped her savagely in front of Rhaenys. Stabbed her twice and left her for dead. So, sever the wounds were that maesters believed she would never birth a child, ever. He had aided her enemies for decades, in Essos and in Westeros. Though not a forgiving person, those wounds had healed and were old, and she would have forgiven him.

 

Till two nights ago when he murdered her husband in cold blood. Scaling the Prince’s Tower and attacking him as he returned from singing a lullaby to their children.

 

Rhaenys’ fist was so tight her nails were digging into her layers of skin. She wanted to claw out his eyes. But a monster like him deserved only the worst punishment. _Fire_. Death by fire, and the humiliating fact that even though he so opposed House Targaryen he would also be our sacrifice to regaining our old power. _If it worked_ , she thought doubtfully.

 

The other man was some Golden Company pissant who claimed descent from an old and powerful Westerosi house in the Reach that had fallen to disgrace during the Blackfyre wars. His nose had already been broken once or twice, now it was broken even more savagely that Rhaenys doubted he could breathe from it, and his eyes were bruised purple circles.

 

The two men were as different as night and day. Ronnal was smiling a broken and brown toothed smile, and Mortin was crying softly. When Ronnal saw the pyre and stakes surrounding it, he smiled and looked ready to mock her, she gave him no chance to.

 

“Tie them up to the stakes, please,” she ordered.

 

“Gonna whip me before my beheading? I’ve had worse,” Ronnal laughed.

 

“No,” she smiled darkly. “You two are going to burn.” She enjoyed the smile that was wiped off his face.

 

While Mortin went placidly. Ronnal curses all the way to the pyre as he tries to free himself from the guards’ grip. “You’re as mad as Daemon!” He struggled hard and elbowed Barthello in the face, “I won’t go out like this! Fight me! I demand trial by COMBAT!”

 

He ripped out Barthello’s stiletto and charges her, but he was far and all seven of the finest knights in the realm were here around her, including Maegon and Norwin. And especially Ser Edric Dayne. He hadn’t made it two steps before Edric ripped open his belly in an unrestrained swing of his longsword.

 

“That was for the king,” he harshly whispered as he held the broken man by the hair.

 

Rhaenys had shielded her children as best she could but all heard the bawling screams of Ronnal.

 

“Edric,” Dany berated. “He needs to be alive!”

 

With a dark look she would expect from their cousin the Darkstar, not Edric he threw Ronnal’s head forward to slam in the sand. “He’s still screaming, is he not.”

 

“Hurry,” Dany ordered the guards still standing. Barthello was nursing his broken nose.

 

Arylon and Tylen tied Ronnal to the stake with sober grace. And Arvis placed his torch under Aemon, Mortin, and Ronnal where kindling was set to burn in the fastest way. Ronnal screams even more. Mortin held off his scream as long as he cold, but like a cough it burst from his throat into the sky.

 

When the fire took, Daeron finally cried out. Grief hit her hard, like a steel fist. Rhaella’s screams finally sounded mad to her ears, her daughter’s and her grandmother’s. The knights of the Kingsguard knelt to her three-year-old son, “Long live the king,” they said as one. Seven who are one.

 

Ronnal and Mortin’s screams were beginning to fade now. Their legs and torso were burnt black and their feet had begun to turn to ash. Surprisingly she could see them but not Aemon.

 

She cried bitter tears; she could see the maester trying to subtly enter her eyesight. There was so much to do, the Others, rebellious lords, the black dragon in hiding somewhere. Why do queens get a day to mourn but the realm gets a sennight? We knew the king. We loved them anymore than others would. Kept their darkest secrets. She ignored the damn maester and picked Daeron up into her arms and got her twins to hold her legs for comfort.

 

The fire consuming her husband reminded her of Aegon’s funeral, and the tales of Rhaegar’s, the one she missed being on the run from Lannister swords. The three dragon eggs, Dany placed in the crib were glowing as hot as coal in a brazier. Too bright, an unnatural brightness to them.

 

Something felt different. The air was hot, too hot for the cold autumn sunset. Too warm for anything this high on Visenya’s Hill.

 

“Mum,” Daeron whispered. “Why did father not wake up? He always answers me.”

 

“He’s gone baby,” Rhaenys kissed his cheek. His silver hair blocking his sad and confused eyes. “He’s gone to a better place.”

 

“Where,” Aerea asked sniffling.

 

“The seven heavens, Winterfell, Summerhall, the drowned god’s watery palace. I don’t know, but I know his suffering is over, he can be with King Rhaegar, his mother Lyanna of Winterfell, and his uncle Eddard.” _And Egg_.

 

“But I want him here,” Rhaella screams in her skirts. Rhaenys was going to respond when Rhaella’s namesakes screams again, but not a scream of pain but of shock. Rhaenys’s head whips up, the dragon eggs are moving. Side to side, back and forth, cracks are appearing along their shells like rivers on a map. Breaking off to create more cracks. But the eggs aren’t the only thing moving. The pyre is. Fire doesn’t make stone move, and the eggs are too small to sway a stone tablet. Ash plumes with every movement.

 

She coughs as the wind almost as unholy as the searing heat cuts through her and the fire bringing smoke to her eyes and throat. She can barely see anymore.

 

The flames have turned a blue color, then green, then yellow again. “Sorcery,” someone calls out. “The king,” a Kingsguard rings out and they surround her. Swords drawn, shields up, and eyes hard as steel.

 

Blocking her view of the pyre. Rhaenys’ mind has gone blank, all her understanding of the world through her readings has not prepared herself for this. The howls ring out from outside the Dragonpit. She had kept the direwolves, including Ghost out for the sake of the High Septon during the services, but they burst through the doors. Ghost leading them like a terrible bloody ghost. He howls, a broken and queer howl that sounds unlike anything she has heard and also terribly similar to Grey Wind’s or Nymeria’s. She had never heard him make a noise other than growling before now.

 

Ghost rushes forward, Ser Barristan prepares his sword but Ghost slides around him more fluidly then a beast of his size should be able to. “Aemon! He’s going for Aemon!” Arya yells, and that seems to put many in motion, unsure of the direwolf’s intentions. By this point the pyre’s flame has risen eight feet in the air. Aerea calls after Ghost but Ghost leaps into the fire. Rhaenys screams without meaning to. Was she destined to lose more of what she loved today?

 

Her eyes widen in what she witnesses. Ghost and a _man_? Both unharmed in the flames.

 

The fire recedes almost magically, after Ghost leapt into it, not gotten bigger as she thought it would. As experience dictated it would. Her knees buck, but Ser Arthur grabs her waist and Ser Barristan expertly catches Daeron. A red priest must be here, this must be some fiery sorcery from their damned R’hllor god. _The Red Witch, maybe she never_ left. A red priestess was also an ally of Daemon, she wanted to call for swords, but her throat was thick with ash.

 

A silhouette appeared in the dying flames and smoke and ash, an impossible silhouette. Tears and ash covered her eyes, _born amidst salt and smoke_ , she thought stupidly.

 

Rhaella pushed off Aerea and had a queer glint in her eye. A mad glint. As her mother she knew immediately what she intended. She tried to grab impulsive Rhaella, but she sprinted ahead. She uselessly reached for her, knowing she was now halfway to the pyre already.

 

The flames had died down and were smoldering embers. Rhaenys was not worried about a burn to Rhaella, she was worried more about the man sitting on the stone tablet. The Kingsguard as well for they were too stunned to grab Rhaella.

 

Atop the pyre sat Jon, three dragons wrapped around him, and Ghost licking his soot covered face. But it must be a demon! Not her Jon, he died when traitors stabbed their king in the back ten times. But the wounds were only faint lines. And he looked stupefied himself. He noticed the ring of people around him and covered himself.

 

He flinched from the dragons coiled around him. She knew nothing of magic, but she knew her husband. And no one can imitate the flurry of emotions crossing his face as now. He was trying to cover himself somehow when Rhaella launched into his arms. His fast reflexes allowed him to catch her instantly. Everything passed in a blur.

 

Maegon was laughing and crying giving his king his tunic under his doublet, some septon give the king a robe before Maegon could give his breeches as well, then he burst into prayers at once. The two Rhaellas, younger and older were holding Jon as close as possible as if he might float away. Dany was holding one of the dragons and studying its silver and white body as it and the others studied her in return.

 

Aerea soon joined her twin along with everyone else, they huddled around him touching and kissing and crying. All but Rhaenys and Daeron were there, they stayed away. They were skeptical, cut from the same cloth. Disbelief, and brains trying to wrap themselves around this kept them still. _If the Others were real, how could this not be real_?

 

When he kissed Rhaella’s and Aerea’s foreheads, he turned and looked to her. Silver eyes bore into her like they used to do when they first lay under the weirwood in that dark forrest in the north, as they still do years later. Rhaenys smiled watery, as she broke into a run with Daeron and they ran straight into Aemon’s arms. Covered in soot or not, it was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was recently added, so let me know if it does not work in the fixture of the story.
> 
> In other notes, this chapter has put me over 60,000 words!!


	2. The Battle Beneath the Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twenty years before the prologue, the beginning of the end of Rhaegar's Rebellion.

**Twenty Years Ago**

Ned had been thinking of a time before Lyanna ran away with the Crown Prince, before Brandon and father’s deaths, and before him ever seeing battle. He shivered as he remembered killing three men and capturing two in the Battle of Rosby. War was… was different then he imagined. He always saw it as glorious and if it was for a good cause you would never fall. But in reality, it was dirty, bloody, and the chances of survival was sometimes not even reliant on your skill with a sword.

 

He sent a quick prayer that Lyanna and Benjen were as far from the fighting as possible, safe in that damn tower in Dorne and Winterfell. At that moment Martyn Cassel stuck his head into Ned’s tent. “It’s time milord,” he departed as quick as his face appeared. Ned sighed as he rose and buckled his sword belt. Martyn calling him my lord would always be uncomfortable, he still looked for father some days.

 

He fell into step beside Howland Reed as they walked to the enormous black pavilion. Inside that pavilion held the large slab of wood that Rhaegar had led war meetings at. Before Ned entered, he looked behind him at the silhouette of the Red Keep in the distance shrouded in clouds, _one more day,_ he sighed. _The war will be over, and I can see Lya again._ The guards bedecked in black and red finery held open the flaps for them to enter. It was stuffy inside to Ned with at least ten braziers burning to ward off the dusk spring chill, and from the sheer number of lords and knights inside the great pavilion. There was more than two score of lords and knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms, except the iron Islands.

 

Lord Tywin and his westerland lords stood on one side. Robert and the few men of appropriate honors left to him stood near a corner solemn and acrimonious, Jon and his heir Denys and Yohn Royce not far from Robert. Hoster and the Blackfish next to Jon, with a few of his men, and finally Lord Hightower next to Lord Tywin. At the head of the table sat his good-brother Rhaegar flanked by his loyal allies, friends, and two Kingsguard, Ser Lewyn and Ser Barristan the Bold.

 

Ned found his northmen near the Tullys. He took his spot between the Greatjon and Wyman Manderly, Robert took notice. “AH, NED!” he called loudly. “So good of you to join us, we are about to begin to go over the strategy for tomorrow.” Robert smiled at him, but Ned couldn’t help but notice his eyes weren’t, Ned smiled back though. He knew how being rejected hurts, but to not only partially rebel for someone then learn they never wanted you anyway is heartbreaking. Howland says Robert is not taking the news well, but the Greatjon says he is fine drinking and whoring. No matter what Ned made his decision, and if this brings less bloodshed then so be it. But didn’t make it feel any better to him.

 

“Now that all of our commanders are here, we can begin,” Rhaegar stood and nodded at Richard Lonmouth, who subsequently unfurled a map of King’s Landing. “Our top priorities are the hostages in the Red Keep. My father is mad and won’t hurt hesitate to do something.”

 

Ned heard Robert and his cousin Ser Ronnal mumble something and chuckle. But Rhaegar paid little to it. Jon Arryn stepped forward, “Our scouts have counted the men Aerys has left,” he places a finger on the Red Keep. “He has left two hundred loyal men-at-arms and knights there. In the city he has ten thousand men under Randyll Tarly, five thousand men under several crownlands left after the Battle of Rosby, and at least nine thousand more men of sundry locations and sellswords and gold cloaks.”

 

“I guess we ought to be glad of Lord Tyrell’s cowardice,” one lord said. “He sends only ten thousand of his thirty thousand force. How many men does he need for one meager castle?”

 

Robert growls across the table. “Storm’s End is not meager and can repel sieges of much greater scale.”

 

“Certainly,” the lord looks dubious. “Although at the moment the castle has no strategic value.”

 

“No Strategic value,” Robert exclaims furiously. “Bring your sword Lord Endymion I’ll show you who has no strategic value.”

 

For a moment the stormlanders and a few westerlanders were looked like they might come to blows. He nodded to his lords in case they needed to separate the lords.

 

“My lords, please,” Rhaegar said exasperated but with steel in his voice. “Our enemy is a mad man not ourselves.”

 

“Ormund sit down,” Tywin calmly ordered as he stared Robert down. Ned was going to talk to Robert but Ronnal beat him to it, whispering about how one lord was not worth it. Ned bit down feelings of jealousy. Ever since Rhaegar rode hard to meet him and Jon north of the Trident and tell his side with witnesses, his version only backed up Benjen’s pleas and cries, and he believed him, making him the mortar that brought Robert’s Rebels and Royalist forces. Now Robert has been distant and short with him. Ned tried to act like he didn’t care but couldn’t, he does mis his brother in all but blood. But then who knew how many would die if Rhaegar and Robert fought, then fought Aerys? Thousands, Ned imagined. And Lyanna, knowing what he knew now, if Aerys or Robert won would she be safe, would his nephew?

 

“I’m sure no one meant any harm,” Ned said diplomatically. “This whole situation has been precarious and stressful. We are overthrowing our king.” Ormund Endymion sat down but Robert remained standing.

 

“Forgive me boy, but Lord Endymion’s questions do have merit,” Jon said as Robert and stormlanders glared. “Too far south to reinforce King’s Landing, and with all our strength here, it does seem like cowardice. But even at this moment another force from Lord Tyrell could be marching north.”

 

“That is why the crossing will be watched,” Rhaegar eyed Lord Endymion. “As expert lighthouse watchers, you and your men will be situated there. Your 900 men and hundred knights should be sufficient to hold a crossing and alert our main forces.”

 

Lord Ormund paled at that but knelt like it was an honor. “Me and my men shall serve faithfully.” And be dead by day’s end. A thousand men would have no chance if Tyrell and a quarter of his force marched up the Kingsroad.

 

“You should prepare Lord Endymion,” Lord Tywin remarked but silently glared at Rhaegar. Pale-faced and shaking in anger Ormund swept from the pavilion. Ned knew the Endymions were proud, they had lesser Valyrian blood, the first Lord Endymion was a household knight on Dragonstone descended of a captain of one of Aenar’s ships. He married a distant Lannister, raised a keep on the Sunset Sea, and had if the legends are true fathered fifty daughters. There their wealth grew, with many strategic marriages and finding a mine. At one-point Ormund’s father was so proud he openly mocked Tywin’s father… till Castamere.

 

Prince Rhaegar continued as if nothing happened, in his silent commanding demeanor. “We out number them. Over thirty-two thousand men should be able to overwhelm their twenty-four thousand men. But to be sure, me and Ser Barristan made this plan.” He picked up a wonderfully carved trout painted blue and red. “Lord Tully, you and your five thousand men will strike the River Gate and essentially help Lord Endymion should Lord Tyrell march or a sortie comes from the King’s Gate.” Now he picked a glossy black stag, “Cousin…”

 

“Don’t call me that,” Robert interjected, Rhaegar gave a solemn nod.

 

“Lord Baratheon, I want you and your twenty-five hundred men to hit the Iron Gate hard and fast.” Robert nodded. With a golden lion he placed it at the Lion’s Gate. “Tywin, your eleven thousand men is to break this gate and capture the walls.” He put the dragon, direwolf, falcon, and sun at another gate. “We will send the crux of our forces at the Gate of the Gods. My knights and dornish skirmishers shall harry the defenders, then Lord Stark will come forward when whoever opens the gates to attack. Arryn you will command our rear. Once our battle begins at the Gate of the Gods, it shall fall to you to signal the other attacks, and to reinforce the other attacks or me and Lord Stark.

 

“We shall spread them far and wide. After I break through, me and Lord Stark shall retake the Red Keep while Lord Tywin secures the walls, and everyone will crush any other resistance.” He took a breath. “And please the citizens have done nothing be gentle. Any questions?”

 

“What shall the signal be your highness,” the Blackfish asks. “The city is too large for torch or banner signaling. Maybe trumpets as well.”

 

“You are right Ser Brynden,” he looked surprised he forgot. “Does anyone have any suggestions?”

 

“A flaming arrow could work,” mused the Blackfish, “Riders,” Lord Pellaeon remarked, “Horns,” some Frey said.

 

All good suggestions he supposed but they could work. Riders might alert defenders of the plan. But the best one came from a boy, about Benjen’s age. Small and lean with sun-streaked sandy-brown hair, freckles, and pale purple eyes. “The bells ring when under siege. Once the attack begins the bells will ring.”

 

Ned smiled at the boy and he blushed. “That’s a good idea. Wait a few moments after the bells ring to strike,” Ned said. Rhaegar nodded.

 

“That’s the plan.” He stood up. “Prepare your men. Dismissed.”

 

Ned went to talk to Robert after telling his lords to inform and prepare the men. But Ser Kevan was there first and they left together. _That’s… queer._ He had never seen Robert interact with a Lannister of his own volition before. He was about to leave when Rhaegar called him. And gestured to a chair. “Sers the door, if you will.” Ser Lewyn and Ser Barristan did not hesitate.  “Aeryk some wine please.”

 

The wisp of the boy from earlier filled two chalices and handed one to him. “Thank you, Aeryk…” he started.

 

“Targaryen, my lord.” He provided.

 

“I see thank you,” he said trying to remember his family trees. Aeryk left soon after.

 

“Don’t think too hard goodbrother,” Rhaegar chuckled.

 

“Is he your cousin?” Knowing Rhaegar had an uncle not much older than him.

 

“Yes, the son of the lord of Sable Lake.”

 

That name was familiar, a Targaryen hunting lodge on the remains of Whitewalls. Recently it grew to a large castle due to the Butterwell’s fall from grace and the takeover of their lands and incomes. Sable Lake’s lords (the king) took over the cattle lands and left the vineyards to the knightly house of Butterwell. “I must confess I have not studied my genealogies at my maester’s knee in a while.”

 

He waved a hand. “It’s no matter. Prince Aelor is my mother’s and father’s younger brother. Truth told he is only eight years older than me and is more like an older brother that uncle.” He sipped the wine that amusingly was a Butterwell vintage. “He married a Santagar and angered my brother and Lord Tywin, but he served as master of laws for most of his life. But in his madness my father dismissed him, only allowing him and his sons and granddaughter to leave. Leaving his wife and daughter with my wife.” Then added, “Elia.” As if Ned could not deduce that, but a question was on his tongue.

 

“Granddaughter,” he pondered. “Does Aeryk have an older brother.” Could explain the shyness and blush he knew all to well.

 

“No,” he smiled mischievously and leaned in. “My uncle only has three children Aeryk, Maegon, and Maegelle.” He looked at the flap. “It’s Aeryk’s.”

 

Ned almost choked on his wine. “What?”

 

 

“He’s a little different, but is not fond of whores, or women in general. But two years ago, he and some fellow squires snuck away and entered a brothel-ale house. He was mocked and betted against he couldn’t have sex. He did and nine moons later Aelora was born.”

 

Ned was laughing against his wishes. “I couldn’t imagine.”

 

“No. It was hard for me too. My own father thought it was hysterical, only he wasn’t laughing at the situation, but at Aelor. Aeryk was humiliated and so irate since he hasn’t even held her.” He looked melancholic again. “Now I couldn’t imagine not holding Rhaenys or Aegon, or my unborn child.”

 

“The war will be over soon,” he provided comfortingly. “Then we can all hold our children again.” They sat in silence, sipping wine. Then Rhaegar raised his eyes, joy gone.

 

“Watch out for Robert,” he cut into the silence.

 

“Robert? Gods, what has he done now,” he japed a little, but something pulled at him from Rhaegar’s tone.

 

“Him and Tywin are planning something.”

 

 _Was he going mad as well?_ “I can recall Tywin and Robert talking on hand a few times and I can have fingers left to grasp a sword still,” he said. “Robert hates Tywin, he told me numerous times.” He felt a coil of anger in his belly at his accusations.

 

“The whole Endymion scene was a test. Tywin was probing Robert’s bitterness.” They looked each other in the eye. His sad, Ned’s angry. “I’m not telling you to betray him. Just… watch him and Tywin. And don’t be surprised by anything.”

 

Ned didn’t respond but finished the wine and took his leave for sleep. He dreamed of adventures in the Eyrie with Robert, travelling valleys and mountains. Snowballs drifting in the air collapsing snow forts he and his siblings would build in the godswood at Winterfell.

 

To Ned, the sun rose to fast, but he got up all the same. He washed his face, ate some mashed oats and some pulled meat slowly. Dawned his armor mechanically, when he mounted up, he learned from Ser Yohn and Martyn Cassel that the Tullys, Robert, and Tywin had already departed for their posts. He ordered, and the Greatjon bellowed them louder, for his men to get into formation to march, and had Martyn Cassel blow his horn. Two answered in response, behind his foster-father and in front his good brother. As Rhaegar’s men and dornishmen started, he nervously spurred his horse into a trot and followed the Targaryen banners listlessly.

 

Soon the walls came into sight without leave, with the smell. Ned grunted, as the gate opened after the dornishman had annoyed them for an adequate enough time. The bells rang and had been for some time now. The dornish skirmishers raced back into the line on Rhaegar’s left. His host came into position on the prince’s right and prepared themselves.

 

He glanced behind him and saw Jon had put his footmen behind his heavy cavalry, and on the flanks two groups of a mix of light and heavy cavalry to break off in any direction at a moment’s notice. He ordered his commanders to get the men in formation of archer, horse, foot. He prayed to the old gods as the archers came forward.

 

 _This is it. The final battle and then I can see Lyanna, his nephew, Benjen, Catelyn again, and meet his newborn son. I must survive,_ he thought as he fastened his helm and drew his sword. Glad he left Ice at home, this way he can hold a shield as well. _I wasn’t trained to wield a greatsword._ A huntsman banner led out knights bedecked in glory Reach banners flapping behind, with their foot close behind, and some gold cloaks. The crownlanders and sellswords must be somewhere else. As fear enveloped him, horns from the walls blew frantically. The host stopped hesitantly as the men leading the huntsmen banner and the red apple banner rode back behind the walls. Everyone was anxious, even the horses whickered and bucked. Although he was nervous too, he knew the defenders had just realized four gates are being attacked instead of one. The red apple Fossoway knight returned and ordered his knights to charge.

 

“Looks like this apple is overripe,” Greatjon barked. A few laughed, but he nodded, and a direwolf banner waved twice. He heard Beron Glover, “NOCK! DRAW! LOOSE!” Arrows flew towards the lines. Not as many as he hoped but a good open volley. Rhaegar’s archers and skirmishers had more an affect coming at two new angles.

 

The knights reached the halfway point. “Pellaeon! Manderly! Form up!” He lowered his visor, he waved at his bannerman. Soon the archers created enough space for the cavalry to ride through. They galloped past as the Greatjon and his men pounded their shields in tandem as a sendoff. Soon Ned was as well. Simultaneously without word, him, Manderly knights, and Lord Aenar Pellaeon, the Old Warhorse’s lancers sped down the field. Ned’s heart thumped in tandem with his horses’ hooves, blood rushed in his ears blocking all sound, he gripped his sword with sweaty hands. Sweat ran down his back. The Pellaeon lancers on their ensorcelled horse breeds left him with the Manderly knights and northern cavalry in the dust, whooping. Ahead a line of knights galloping towards them.

 

He watched fascinated and terrified as they came together in a mass of horseflesh and steel a second before him. A second was all he needed as his horse jumped over a dying horse. His first foe was a man in an Oakheart surcoat with two arrows in him. He charged Ned madly, but Ned was still in full speed and was faster, meeting his overhead slash, parrying, letting him attack. But he blocked with his shield, then Ned cut at the exposed flesh between helm and gorget.

 

Then two men approached him, but one was ridden down by a Rosby knight suddenly, the other continued his attack on Ned. This knight with a blue wavy bend on a golden field was way better than the Oakheart knight. He had no shield but a heavy greatsword and yelled, “STARK,” each time he attacked. That was his downfall. Ned parried a heavy-up ward slash he saw coming from watching the knight’s mouth. Moved his horse deftly around him. In one slash cut off the knight’s leg and wounded one of his horse’s hind legs. He left the man sobbing in the mud.

 

He came upon the Old Warhorse fighting off three men, Ned soon joined. Surprising the attackers, slashing and blocking. When the last fell, he and Aenar saw that Rhaegar had hit the Loyalist host on their left flank and Jon on their right, and that his host’s foot had joined the chaos. Ned and Aenar gathered men for another charge this time into the foot. They formed a great hole, and gained precious momentum, but it didn’t last. A great commander the red apple Fossoway was, spearmen stopped the push and began to push back the lines.

 

Ned feared all was lost when his horse took a spear to the neck. Ned expertly jumped the saddle before he could lose a leg, remembering practices with Robert in the Vale at the hands of Jon’s master-at-arms. As he rose on tired and shaky legs, he saw they had come to close to the walls and were now being butchered by the defenders’ arrows. To him it was chaos, blood splashed in his face, men shouting in panic or eagerness, and he hazily watched a Velaryon man be cut down.

 

He recovered in enough time to bring his tattered shield against the Velaryon man’s bane, a Florent knight. The sheer blow whacked him down into the mud. His hand was deep in the mud, but his leg was free. _It wasn’t honorable. But survival usually wasn’t._ He kicked out in full strength with his steel plate boot and kicked in the knight’s knee. His knee bent unnaturally, and he screamed loudly. Giving Ned enough time to rise and finish him.

 

When he pulled his sword from the knight’s neck, horns blared and sounds of surprise filled his ears. He glanced up, Vale foot were in the midst now and lions banner were rising like the sun all along the walls like dawn. Tywin finally did it. The walls were theirs now, and soon the city. The sun was high in the sky when the city’s defenders retreated. Greatjon had the northmen form up around them as the crownlanders captured or killed the stragglers fleeing. He was given a horse to ride into the city befit his station.

 

The courtyard of the Gate of the Gods was full of men moving bodies into piles, men reforming and others relaxing. He found Rhaegar ahorse staring at the Red Keep, he reined up beside him.

“Tywin encountered the least resistance, but Tully was surrounded. Six thousand men at the River Gate and Tyrell sent another five thousand men up the Kingsroad,” he took a flask from Aeryk.

 

“Is Lord Hoster still alive?” He feared for his wife’s father. He was good man but very ambitious, maybe to ambitious.

 

“Yes. Lord Endymion slowed Lord Bulwer down but was overwhelmed, but Lannister men were swarming the walls by the time Bulwer hit Lord Hoster’s flank.”

 

Ned sighed, if Lord Hoster fell it would not only be bad for his wife, but the heir to Riverrun was naught but a boy. “Any word from Robert? Soon we can surround the Red Keep.”

 

Rhaegar’s lips pursed. “No. I wouldn’t worry about Robert; Tarly has reformed his shattered host in Cobbler’s Square.” Wasn’t he just worried about Robert last night, maybe he realizes Robert is a warrior, not one for machinations? Ned shakes that thought out of head.

 

“Lord Flint,” he called to the man drinking heavily from a flask. “Take some men and scale the walls, send word to Robert- “

 

Screams interrupted his words. Men were pointing, and Aeryk was calling for Rhaegar. Rhaegar was pale. When Ned saw why he was too, the Prince’s Tower of Maegor’s Holdfast was aflame. Princess Elia’s quarters. The black stag waving from the tower was punch in the gut. _Watch Tywin and Robert…_

 

 


	3. The Battle Beneath the Walls: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle continues in King's Landing. Ned wants to get through Tarly peacefully and as fast as possible, and Jaime has to save the day (and be the Kingslayer for the rest of his life).

The Quiet Wolf

* * *

 

Ned always assumed Rhaegar was a calm man, not prone to outbursts or boisterous actions. Now he knew why it was called waking the dragon, all dragons are idle till roused. He had been urging men into formation for the last minute or so before the commanders tried to talk to him. Ned, Richard, Jon Arryn, and Ser Lewyn attempted to calm Rhaegar down, charging Tarly’s defenses would end in death of many, and possibly Rhaegar himself.

 

“What would you have me do!” He begins to pace inside the house they commandeered for this discussion by the Gate of the Gods. “Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys are there and you want me to sit here and wait? Wait for them to die?”

 

“No, your grace. But Lord Tarly surely has seen the fire. He is an honorable and reasonable man if we talk to him…” Richard tried.

 

“What? He is going to open his ranks and let us walk through,” Lewyn jests, he has been reapplying Rhaegar’s armor, after he threw off his vambraces and gauntlets in rage.

 

“I believe we have wasted enough time on this decision. I will take the fight to Tarly myself without Stark men, and you Richard if I have to. I have enough men left to take Tarly.” Rhaegar grabs his helm.

 

“He has entrenched himself, your grace.” Jon has seemed to age in the last ten minutes. Haggard and distressed. Wracking his mind of why Robert would do such a thing.

 

The king rounded on Jon. “And you! I ordered you to bring Robert to me. Why are you still here?”

 

“Don’t ask this of me your grace, anything but this. Send the Dornishmen,” Jon pleaded once more with a look at Lewyn. Ned wanted to defend his foster father, but he didn’t want to be sent to arrest Robert either, so he kept his eyes away from haggard Jon and enraged Rhaegar.

 

“ _Enough,_ Lord Arryn. You have the horse, Lord Stark’s horse is mostly horseless, and mine are gone. You will be there faster. Relieve the Iron Gate and bring me Robert, or I will make your heir do it himself.” Ned couldn’t take it anymore.

 

“Your grace, may I speak to Lord Arryn for a minute?” Ned walked in front of Jon and Rhaegar. Rhaegar studied Ned and nodded after he assessed himself. “Yes, you may. Forgive me Lord Arryn, I am unwell right now. Stark you have one minute.” Rhaegar, Ser Lewyn, and Ser Richard left soon after, Richard sent an apologetic look to them before leaving.

 

“Jon,” he began.

 

“My mind is all muddled Ned.” He sighed and looked out the hole that served as the window in the hovel. He clapped a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “This is all an oversight, right? Robert, my boy, wouldn’t have done this, me and Steffon raised him better than this.”

 

“It’s hard to believe, but what else could the stag have meant? Somedays I have looked at Robert recently and not recognized the man.”

 

“Where did it all go wrong?” His whole frame shook, and Ned was sharply reminded of Jon’s age. He should _not_ be on the battlefield.

 

“Perhaps, it never did.” Jon glared at Ned.

 

Then softened. “I still believe Robert would be a better king than Rhaegar.” He breathed out, the words were almost like a whisper and said too fast. “Your minute has passed, and so has mine. It is time I listened to my king.” Jon slowly walked out of the hovel, leaving Ned in its dank lightless room. Ned felt that customary dread from his stomach and lower back that seemed to spread to cover every corner of his body and made Ned want to punch someone just to feel their nose cave in. He composed himself by thinking of what he usually does when this happens. In the Eyrie it was his mother, which then became his siblings as she faded from his memory. Lately it seemed to be Cat, her long red hair spread out against her blue pillow.

 

When he could control himself, he straightened himself, and walked outside. The midday sun blinded him but warmed his chilled bones. Valemen were leaving in two columns of two, horse shit and dust clouds were all they left behind. _I still believe Robert would be a better king than Rhaegar, Jon said. I have my own doubts on either of these would be good kings. Rhaegar, Robert, and Aerys._ He trusted Rhaegar and Robert, but Rhaegar was the only option for Lyanna’s safety. Ned had no preference in king, if his family was safe and free to return to the north and live out the rest of their days like every other Stark, besides his father and Cregan, that would be sufficient.

 

 He mounted his stolen destrier, she still had the caparison of its owner. The sigils that covered it were soaked in the blood of others and its former rider. Ned pulled up beside Rhaegar fully armored and armed once more, his eyes upward. The fire in the Prince’s Tower was extinguished but still a black smoke rose from its windows. Ned did not want to march into Lord Tarly’s defenses. He was an admirable commander, and incredibly stubborn. He lost six thousand men, more or less, outside the walls and in the courtyard. He had less than four thousand men to him. Any commander would have surrendered already. It was admirable, but now when the war’s end was in sight, it seemed meaningless. But Ned knew he have would have done the same, but now if he could channel the wisdom of the Old Gods so more men wouldn’t die.

 

He saw only one option, he urged Rhaegar again, but with a new tactic. “We might be able to overwhelm Lord Tarly but imagine the amount of time it would take to do so.” Rhaegar’s head turned to Ned as they led their horses down the street. He had Rhaegar’s attention, whether it was the dragon or the calm man he would soon find out.

 

“Wouldn’t talking take the same amount of time, Lord Stark?”

 

“What about the smallfolk hiding in their houses, how would fighting in the midst of their city affect them?”

 

“Smallfolk have always endured, and they will here. Elia and my children being dead will only bring more misfortune down upon them,” Rhaegar countered.

 

“Tarly is an exceptional commander, if he commanded outside the walls we might have lost,” But he was commanding a hundred battles inside. “He will bloody us, severely Rhaegar.” Now was the time for the blow. Playing off of Rhaegar’s apprehension of Tywin. “We might come out with less man then Lord Lannister if we fight, will you put yourself in that situation, at the behest of the lions.”

 

It was silent, Cobbler’s square was coming up soon. But Rhaegar hadn’t responded. Meanwhile Ned surveyed the city since he hadn’t had a chance. It seemed fine from his previous visits with Jon, though it felt unnaturally silent and still for a city of its size. Scared eyes peaked out from doors and windows.

 

“You win Lord Stark,” came Rhaegar’s mumbled reply. “I command you to parley with Lord Tarly. If it takes longer than ten minutes let Tarly know I’m charging him and taking no captives.”

 

Ned smiled as he gathered men to take with him. Lord Pellaeon, the Greatjon, Lord Velaryon, and Lord Hightower. He spoke briefly of a plot he had to convince Tarly. Lucerys Velaryon sent a rider to inform Lord Tarly of the parley. Only when the rider returned did they proceed down the street. Ned knew Tarly was not dishonorable, but he couldn’t help but overthink what if Tarly would betray them. As they rounded a corner in the street, they came to a barricade of furniture taken from nearby houses. A man in only a dirty leather brigandine stood atop the barricade chewing on sourleaf. He spat a pink glob of spit near the feet of Ned’s stolen horse.

 

“You be Lord Stark?” He growled.

 

Velaryon stepped forward. “This is Lord Eddard Stark here to parley with Lord Tarly, may we pass.” The man stared them down for a long time, he seemed to want to kill them right there, maybe he fashioned himself a hero. Kill one of the leaders of Rhaegar’s Rebellion and maybe it would end, and Aerys would reign eternal. _Only that Rhaegar would probably kill that false hero, and his men in his haste to get to his children._

“I suppose you can, only cuz milord wants to speak.” He barked orders down and some men came over the hill of furniture and removed them one by one. When a hole was made, they had to ride single file through. On the other side, there was twenty men, some injured others holding crossbows, but all leveled dark gazes on them. They lost friends and allies today, well so did he, the killing must stop. They passed three more barricades; some were burnt furniture to prevent attackers from setting fire to them to break through. Each barricade held twenty or so men. _Rhaegar wanted to storm this?_ He applauded Tarly’s resilience, he had two hours and he did this.

 

The last barricade was like a fortress, this one was made of mud and furniture, and had little posts where archers could fire from cover. On the rooftops more archers and crossbowmen leveled their aims at them as they rode past. The men opened this one as soon as they caught Ned riding up. A boy ran up to lead them to Randyll Tarly. Hundreds were camped here. They gave solemn looks to Ned and his retinue, as they followed the boy to a manse at near the eastern end of the square.

 

Tarly exited the manse with a scowl. A lean man with a short, bristly dark beard. The hair atop his head was beginning to bald and was cut close to his scalp. Under his grey breastplate he wore mail and boiled leather. His family’s ancestral sword was strapped across his back, Heartsbane was near in size to Ice, although Ice was perhaps a finger wider. “Lord Tarly, I am here to end this bloodshed,” he greeted.

 

“Then you should’ve kept a tighter leash on your sister and brother.” They glared down each other. “No matter, come inside there’s wine and some cheese I acquired from some merchant.”

 

“Where is this merchant,” he asked as he dismounted. He entered the manse and found it to belong to some very, very rich merchant. The lower floor of the manse was full of vases depicting ancient battles, couches of velvet and samite, and chandeliers of gold. Tarly gestured to a beautiful black wood table with plush chairs around it.

 

“Some Free City cheesemonger from Braavos who left his maid in charge of his manse,” he then proceeded to call upon the maid who brought them a platter of chees, wine, and salted bread. The meaning was not lost, and they ate it gladly. “Did Ser Hunt give you any issues? He called me a fool to allow you to parley. He has been my family’s bannerman for generations, but for that I gave him the command of the front lines.” He ate some bread then. “Am I fool for thinking about this?”

 

“No, my lord, for nigh on a year we have been fighting. The battles in the Stormlands and Riverlands. Rosby, Duskendale, now,” Leyton Hightower began.

 

Ned measured Randyll’s face. “Rhaegar wants this war to be over, he wants to rebuild the Seven Kingdoms. I assume you saw the fire.”

 

“Who hasn’t. All that shows me is that Rhaegar wants to be king but can’t control his own bannerman. Why should I bend the knee?” He bit into the yellow cheese and accompanied it with a sip of wine.

 

“Madness is why. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I was there when Aerys burnt Lord Stark and young Brandon Stark chocked on a wire.” Lucerys said. Ned felt glad he had chosen his companions wisely. Men of appropriate birth for a traditional man like Tarly, and well-spoken. “I lost two sons off the coast of Duskendale, I will not lose my other at Driftmark. If Rhaegar loses I will, but Rhaegar will spare your son and daughter if he wins.”

 

Randyll seemed to digest that for long while. The Greatjon stepped in before he could respond. “We took a bite out of that red apple earlier; I won’t hesitate to be a cannibal now. My king’s queen and heirs are in the hands of a man that killed my liege lord and his heir! Ha!”

 

“We also killed many wolves, falcons, snakes, and dragons. Bloodied the lion severely, had some roasted trout,” he eyed Ned over his cup. “And a stag cored your dragon.”

 

“Exactly. How many more must die before this is over. I’m almost at nine-and-fifty namedays, my last war has become a bloodbath of unnecessary violence,” the Old Warhorse finished. “Let’s end this here. Let me go home to care for my grandchildren.”

 

Tarly smiled. “You have been preparing a speech I see my lords.” He acquiesced. “I must say that my lord has us fighting for King Aerys for reasons I do not understand, and I did my duty to enforce his ruling. But I am spent.” He stood and held out his hand, Ned followed. “I only have one request as a loyal bannerman. Spare Lord Tyrell any harsh punishment.”

 

“I cannot say I have the power to promise anyhting,” Ned answered honestly as Lucerys gaped at him, and Randyll smirked. “Although as an ally of Rhaegar, my word holds weight in his decisions.”

 

“Lord Stark you have my respect.” Randyll turned to a lord with three black castles on his surcoat. “Tell the men to bring down the barricades and kneel for their new king.”

 

Ned sent Leyton to report to Rhaegar, but Ned, his other companions, and a hundred knights of Lord Tarly bolted off to scale the walls of the Red Keep.

 

The Young Lion

* * *

 

Sometimes he laughed, or he cried with dry cheeks, and other times he raged. An old knight in Lord Crakehall’s retinue once told Jaime, that every man dealt with tragedy in different ways. It seemed Jaime was destined to be a fickle mourner. When Aegon’s milk nurse cradling Prince Aegon burst into the throne room screaming of an attack on the king’s most prized hostages, Aerys flew into a flipping mad rage. “Kill them! Kill them all!” No one else was in the throne room besides Jaime and the mad Rossart, so Jaime left. He had gathered two men-at-arms with him, Ser Martyn Cressey and Ser Yvan Hayford. He knew Cressey from the thinning training yard, it seemed every other day a knight went missing or lost himself in drink. Buy Hayford was a mystery, his demeanor was calm, and his eyes were always disinterested but he was too involved to not be interested. Hayford arrived after Rosby with the lords of Rhaegar’s original army that turned on him because their loyalties laid with Aerys.

 

Jaime distrusted him immediately. Along with the rest of lords with him. He could understand sneaking off in the middle of night but attacking your former allies while doing so. That was cowardly and dishonorable. When Rhaegar returned from Trident with a new army they fled from Rosby, but not without taking some casualties.

 

As the climbed the twisting steps of the Prince’s Tower the screams grew louder and the smell of smoke assaulted his nose. A man stood guard at the entrance to Elia’s chambers. He turned and drew his sword, “Ronnal!” he screamed. Jaime did not hesitate, he cut off the man’s sword arm as black smoke filled his senses. The door was bolted, but between his kicks and Cressey’s axe it broke down.

 

Smoke was everywhere, four men had prepared themselves. The fire was burning on top of the canopy of the bed and in Aegon’s beautiful crib he had seen a hundred times, by the crib his eyes found Elia. He was speechless as her dead eyes bored into him; her arm outstretched to a figure on the floor near the massive canopied bed. Rhaenys lay there unconscious, hands pressed on her lower abdomen, blood pooling. Cressey retched, Hayford rubbed his sore eyes, but Jaime raged and launched himself at the big man with a long black mane he assumed was Ronnal.

 

He was tackled by another man, burlier than the man he thought was Ronnal, they fell near the fire. The man wrenched Jaime’s sword out of his hand and landed a solid hit on his face. “Ronnal RUN!” He roared; spittle flew into Jaime’s eyes temporary blinding him. Jaime raised his right arm to give him enough time to clean his eyes with his left. Didn’t do much good as he punched Jaime’s side. When his eyes finally opened, he found the man’s hands lifted in a fist as big as a ham to slam down on his nose. He grabbed his wrists and lifted up with a vigor, steel slammed into skin as Jaime headbutted him. They both roared in pain, but Jaime recovered faster and unsheathed his dagger and plunged it right into the man’s neck.

 

He pushed the man off him to find Elia’s body on fire, Cressey holding his entrails, but Hayford was by the princess holding off two men with his axe, Ronnal was slipping out the door with a bloodied sword. Jaime grabbed his longsword and charged the man closest to him attacking Hayford. Hayford saw him and proceeded to kick the man in the nether region making him drop, he was surprised even more when Jaime’s sword pierced his spine. Hayford caved in the last man’s head with his axe. “Dishonorable, but well fought,” he praised.

 

“The fire,” Jaime saw Hayford’s eyes go comically wide with something other than disinterest, almost fear. Jaime turned and saw the flame had risen to caress the ceiling. He frantically searched for Elia’s flagon of water she kept at all times. Thank the gods it was full, he strategically dumped it on the crib and Elia to douse the flames and then smother them. Hayford had done the same to the canopy, but the fire raged still. Servants finally arrived, they carried tubs of water. Jaime ignored the fire then and went to the princess.

 

Her silver-gold hair was pulled out in one place. Her eyes were closed but moved beneath the lids frantically, he quietly and quickly staunched the blood flow and called for a maester. Why would they attack the princess, from the way Hayford glanced at the spot and a few servants not as inconspicuous as they liked peeked over their shoulders, he knew he was not the only one who thought that way. He called on the princess’s handmaiden and whispered what she should do with discretion once the maester came. He then noticed Elia’s Dornish ladies-in-waiting in the corner, throats slit. He surveyed the room and noticed he recognized a body. The man he stabbed in the back was a servant of the Red Keep. He came from Lannisport he was in his father’s household when Jaime went to court for the first time but hadn’t seen him for years.

 

Jaime felt bile rise, his sword was still in his hand, so he nonchalantly looked at the servants dousing the simmers and disfigured the servants face. When he was done, he remembered Ronnal. If he got in through this servant, then maybe he doesn’t know how to leave again. “Hayford, there’s still one more attacker left.”

 

He nodded and they raced out the room the direction Ronnal ran. Not long they found signs he had been through a dead servant on the winding stairs. At the bottom a dead guard. They crossed the lower bailey. They found more dead down the serpentine steps. As they ran down the steps, he saw that most of the city had fallen now. Tarly was still holding strong in a square, looking like ants from here. In the middle bailey they found two dead ladies, but a blood trail. Past the armory and the pig yard. As they neared, they heard an iron door being slammed open. Jaime watched as Ronnal hobbled into the door inset to the northern wall of the Red Keep. _Was he injured?_ Jaime knew a lightly guarded door in that wall lead to city’s walls and if he escaped to his father who held those walls he would be gone forever. _Do I want him caught? He got help from one of dad’s spies._ But then he remembered Rhaenys and Elia. He followed the man. It was dark in the walls. Candles flickered ten feet apart. _Where are the defenders?_ Hayford followed like a shadow. Every sound made Jaime flinch. His ears differentiated the mice and the dripping noise. He found Ronnal near the door to the city’s outer walls. This area was lighted better, Jaime noticed, he also noticed Ronnal wasn’t injured like he assumed but the drip of blood was from his sword.

 

“Took you long enough. I left enough bodies for you to follow me and you still shuffled like a cripple.” He tried a practice slash splattering blood on Jaime and Hayford. “I’ve always wanted to try my skills against a knight of the Kingsguard. You see, the Sword of the Morning, Ser Gerold, and Ser Oswell are with the wolf whore in Dorne. Barristan, and Lewyn were on our side. Jonothor died at Rosby.” He looked at Jaime. “And you are by yourself with one friend.”

 

“And you are alone,” Hayford remarked, finally drawing his sword with his left hand and his axe in his right. Jaime double gripped his sword.

 

“Am I,” a crossbow thumped and caught Hayford in the shoulder, Hayford twisted into his fall to lessen the damage. A man stepped into the light. Ronnal attacked then. He was the same height as him, but he was wider and thicker. The Baratheon in him showing out. Their strikes rang out like a forge, sparks flew. They danced, and Jaime had only had dances like this in the arms of Cersei and the forays of Ser Arthur. But Ronnal’s caresses weren’t as soft as Cersei’s, or as learning as Arthur’s. Jaime’s arm ached from the sheer strength behind each slash. He began to evade him more than parry. They danced near the door then back towards the dark hall. Then back to the door, then the walls. Then again all over. Back and forth. Jaime had to admit, Ronnal Baratheon was probably one of the greatest fighters he had tested his sword against. But he was no Ser Arthur, and _even_ the Sword of the Morning had openings, Ronnal’s was his overwhelming strength. He parried when Ronnal slashed at his shoulder, thrusting both their swords down in a lock, he rammed into him with a shoulder throwing him off balance. Jaime followed by striking upward; bloody ribbons flew in the air. Ronnal’s chest was savagely cut from waist to shoulder.

 

Jaime lowered his sword and glanced at Hayford. He was not dead but badly injured, _I think_. Another crossbow bolt was in his thigh. When Jaime searched for the other man, he found the barrel of a crossbow pointed at his side, in the direction of his kidney. “Let us go, and you can save the injured knight before he bleeds to death,” Ronnal said.

 

“And let the killer of the queen go, what would Rhaegar think?”

 

“Don’t you serve Aerys?” Ronnal smiled. He was slowly backing towards the door, and so was the crossbowman. “This was lovely Ser Jaime. I hope to do this again, but alas, the sign I flew is sure to have sparked some interests by now from our good king Rhaegar.”

 

Jaime watched reluctantly as they descended down another dark corridor, but he knew the crossbow was still pointed at his stomach. When he felt secure enough to move, he knelt by Hayford but saw he was already dead. Was dead for a while by the slit throat he bore. Jaime kicked Hayford’s axe. How could he have been played like this? Sure, Hayford’s head was turned but he looked alive. He wanted to rush down that door and cut down Ronnal and his accomplice.

 

Jaime carried Hayford’s body from the walls and found some maesters attending the bodies of the two serving ladies. He dropped Hayford near them. “Where’s the king?” he asked.

 

“The throne room, milord,” the maester with a shock of orange hair answered.

 

“How’s the battle? He glanced to the gates. Still unbroken.

 

“It seems Tarly has turned. He has surrendered.” He nervously rung his hands. “Lord Lannister has captured the Old Gate, all that remains is the Iron Gate, and that may fall too. Ser Dwyer saw the falcon-and-halfmoon banner heading there.” Jaime left the maesters to their duty and marched to throne room.

 

A grand hall, long enough to house thousands of lords, but not wide enough for a table of seven seats to sit at the head between the pillars. The bowels of Casterly Rock were wider than the Red Keep’s throne room. Jaime’s walk felt like one of repentance as he strolled down the cavern of a throne room. Aerys was still there. Disheveled and mad. Rossart was talking to one of Aerys’s lackeys on the small council. He knelt at the base of the Iron Throne.

 

“Have you heard boy? Your father has shown his true colors same as Rhaegar. Elia deserved what she got.” He cackled. “If I sent you to kill your father would you do it?” He smiled; yellow teeth gleamed. Jaime began to answer but was cut-off. “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t think you have it in you. Although maybe you do. I had your mother seven times, such a godly number, before she wed Tywin, maybe your one of my bastards?” Jaime felt his anger rise but kept his head down. “That would make sense, maybe I’ll have your sister when this is all done. She’s pretty enough and has always wanted a dragon in her bed. I don’t think there’s ever been a father daughter marriage in the Targaryen lineage.” He laughed again. Jaime looked up then, he felt his face turn red.

 

“DON’T! Don’t give me that look cub, that’s that demon of Tywin in you,” Aerys tried to say strongly, but it came out weak. Was he always this pathetic? “Pah. No matter Ser Jaime. I say you are my son, that was Joanna’s look not Tywin.” He tried to save himself. “It shows how strong my seed is and how weak Tywin’s is. The only spawn he’ll have is a monstrous dwarf.” He looked at Rossart. “Burn them all, Rossart. Tywin, Arryn, Stark, and _Rhaegar_.” Jaime felt dread pool; he knew what that meant. He had led Rossart’s men to the places indicated by Aerys to burn, truthfully most was under rebel control now, but if the fire spread from the other parts of the city to the Red Keep. To himself, _to Rhaenys and Aegon_. And that seemed a given, seeing as it wasn’t regular fire, but Aerys’s favorite toy. _Wildfire._ Rossart began to walk, and that’s when Jaime finally felt the weight of his sword in his hand.

 

He stood on shaky legs and cut the man off. “Ser Jaime what is the meaning of this, hmm- “ Jaime cut off his annoying mannerism by stabbing him in the belly. He gasped in pain and fell to his knees.  He turned to Aerys who was scrambling on the throne, cutting bright ribbons into his hands trying to back away. A smart man would run down the steps and run. _But Aerys was a mad man._ “STOP!! I order you!! I am you KING! I am your-“ He felt the blade slice through the skin of his back and his insides like a butter knife to butter. When the sword was yanked out Aerys he fell backward down the long iron steps. Every tumble was accompanied by a soft, sick morbid sound of blood splattering and flesh plunging on the iron sword steps of the Iron Throne.  

 

Then Aerys continued to fall down the steps of the platform the throne was raised on. Only when he stopped rolling and his face stared up unblinking, blood pouring from his open mouth did Jaime breathe a sigh of relief. His tired legs finally trembled, and he fell onto the throne. And surveyed his work. He let out a sigh. And cried his dry tears, for a son of Lord Tywin has no tears for the dead. No tears for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again if any would like to be a beta, please hit me up.
> 
> For those about the Rhaenys scene i was inspired by the great story of Freia by Winterfelland. It is a great story, and it has in my opinion an even darker scene of what Rhaenys suffered.


	4. Reverberations of a War-Torn Kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaella returns to King's Landing, Rhaenys loses and finds herself, and the Lannisters have dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three new POVs this chapter, and the prologue is almost over. Some one asked for an appendix, I had planned to give one after the prologue to not spoil anything, but if you want it now tell me.

 The Black Queen

* * *

 

Rhaella stood on the prow of the Royal Fleet’s galley _Bold Wind._ One of the last ships left to her and the royal fleet. Duskendale was still in the minds of many, Velaryon lost many men, so did Celtigar, Bar Emmon, and Baliss. All houses of Blackwater Bay. The Royal Fleet was crippled from Lord Rykker and his defenses. Lord Rykker panicked, it was understandable to her, she _lived_ with Aerys, and she feared and abhorred him. Rykker was only given Duskendale after Aerys killed all the Darklyns left. He was scared that if Aerys won his family and kin would suffer the same fate as the Darklyns. But Rhaella knew now was that sometimes one needed to leap forward no matter the risks.

 

That’s what she was doing. Sailing Blackwater Bay back to King’s Landing. It had its own risks: she was heavily pregnant, and many men, loyal or not to Aerys, have not heard the news that Aerys was dead.

 

On Dragonstone, she had the five war galleys left to her, to either be prepared for a quick escape across the Narrow Sea, or to be able to return to the capital on a moments notice. So, when she received the raven from her own son urging her to arrive as soon as possible, explaining less of the battle, the Battle Beneath the Walls her son said the men were calling it, for the heavy fighting at the gates. And more of pleading for her help. She wept in joy and in absolution when she read that Aerys was dead by the hand of Ser Jaime.

 

But she also sighed in pain for the young boy. He was never comfortable in the Red Keep, and she instantly knew all his dreams were shattered when he first stood guard outside her door on a night Aerys visited her. She will plead her son to be merciful to the Kingslayer. That dreadful name had caught on fairly quickly. The battle had only ended five days before, but everyone on Dragonstone and in the fleet was speaking about the Kingslayer, and Aerys, and _Robert._

 

She didn’t hear from Rhaegar about Robert, and she didn’t know why. Maybe he thought the news would come easier from his lips than from an impersonal update on the circumstances of the war. If so, her heart soared more. Rhaegar knew the love she bore her cousin Steffon. A cousin loving a cousin was what she knew Rhaegar thought of it. But Rhaella sometimes imagined being under Steffon whenever Aerys took her. Replaced Aerys’s biting with the unknowingly strong and bruising hands of a big man such as Steffon.

 

“My lady,” her handmaid called her. Rhaella turned from the sea with a hand under her belly. Viserys was there beside the handmaiden. Tear streaks upon his face. He still loved his father, a young boy unable to know the difference between saneness and madness. She reached for him and he came willingly. Settled in her side, he was getting too big to carry now at seven. His pale lilac eyes brimmed with tears looked up at her like she was the Mother herself.

 

“Is Rhaegar king now?” His lower lip trembled.

 

She dried unshed tears with a thumb and leaned down. “Yes, my sweet. Rhaegar the First of His Name,” she saw his eyes change. “Does that not sound lovely. Your brother has achieved his goals.”

 

“But father named me his heir before we left,” he complained, eyes burning. “Why I am not king? It’s my crown father told me, he told me over and over as he burned that boy who stole that loaf of bread.” Rhaella stood up straight and calmed her heart. _He’s just a boy, a boy with Aerys whispering in his ears._

 

“No, my sweet. Rhaegar is older, that’s how succession works.”

 

“The king makes the decisions. And father named me _heir._ ” He crossed his eyes. “Rhaegar should bow to me!”

 

She rounded on him, “That is enough Viserys.” He shrank back but Rhaella kept going. “Rhaegar is king, do you even know what the duties of the king entail?” He shook his head. “It means to rule for the best interests of the people of the realm, unlike your father who ruled for himself.” She kneeled in front of him, caressing his cheeks and shoulders. “Would you be prepared to rule for the small men? For others?” She smiled at him. “You can’t make laws about servants bringing shortcakes every hour topped with fresh strawberries and cream.”

 

“I wouldn’t do that,” he gapes at her.

 

“No,” she swipes a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “What’s this? A dragon?” She tickled his side. Viserys laughed and purposely held back his attempts to get away to not hit her stomach. She stopped when tears of laughter filled his eyes and stood bringing Viserys close. She ruffled his hair as the ship tore through the water. They stood there for a long time.

 

When a red silhouette emerged in the distance, she knew it was time to be queen again. “This is a new era Vissy- “

 

“Hey, don’t call me that!” He admonished her. Prying off her hand from his hair.

 

“This is an era of peace, _Viserys_ , you’ll see.” They clutched each other harder.

 

“Will there be more screaming and burning?” She looked down into his vulnerable eyes.

 

“No, those days are done, out with the old, in with the new. Long live the king.” And Viserys responded in a small voice, “Long live the king.”

 

They docked a half-an-hour later. The Fishmarket seemed to be destroyed in some areas. Especially near the gate. Teams of men were pulling and loading wayns full of corpses. Others were carrying building materials. A few desperate merchants were selling their wares, meager they were, but people still needed to eat. Less children than normal were under foot, she knew. She used to ride the Rush from time to time and usually left through the River Gate.

 

Everyone stopped what they were doing when she, Viserys, her retinue of ladies, and her black clad guards disembarked. Many knelt, others watched with open eyes possibly noticing her glimmering red dress she put on as soon as the city came into sight. She would not be mourning her brother, when she already had. _Years ago, after Duskendale._ She walked past them without another glance in their direction. A small welcoming party greeted her near the River Gate barracks.

 

“Queen Rhaella, how great to see you. Looking as magnificent and glorious as usual.” The eunuch Varys was the first to greet her. He kissed the back of her hand lightly. _He’s still alive?_ She smiled thinly at him. She then turned to Lord Velaryon, a distant cousin through her great-uncle’s daughter Vaella.

 

“Cousin,” she embraced him. He held on a little longer than propriety stated. “I see your still alive.” He kissed the back of her hand. Lucerys had always had a simple crush on her, she for the life of her could not understand why, but he was a good friend in all her years of matrimonial captivity. “How does everything go?” He helped her and Viserys into a wagon.

 

He climbed in after Viserys. “The king has placed me on the small council, as master of ships.” He scowled. “An admiral with no fleet. He has tasked me to build up the new royal fleet.” She smiled at that. “Arryn is hand, Rhaegar has been keeping a respectable distance from Tywin. And his coronation will be soon. An army will march south after the coronation. The Stormlands must be settled, Tyrell has not sent any messages up the Kingsroad yet, so we will see.”

 

“What about Robert. We heard rumors of an attack,” she opened the curtain to see the city streets of her home, uncaring about the smell.

 

“He had fled the minute Arryn bared down on the Iron Gate. Left most his men to the dragon’s rage. Ran north with about one-hundred mounted men is the estimate.”

 

“Has my son named anyone to bring him to justice?” _What did Robert do?_

“Aye, Arryn had sent Bronze Yohn Royce and three hundred mounted knights after Robert once he secured the Iron Gate. We received a raven from Rosby that Yohn has still been tracking Robert, but the man seemed to double back his double backs and run Royce mad around the crownlands. Last I heard Royce was implementing a crescent formation and progressing north of Duskendale. Covering from Blackwater Bay to the Kingsroad.”

 

“That’s a lot of gaps, leagues wide. Is Royce trying to let Robert out of his hands?” She did not like this plan. But she didn’t even know what Robert had done. She needed more information.

 

“Royce isn’t the only man searching. Rhaegar put out a thousand golden dragons bounty on Robert. Broken men, sellswords, young lords and knights kept from the fighting are involved now.” He looked at Viserys who was listening with confusion. “Not to mention, Lord Roote, Lady Whent, your brother Prince Aelor, Darry, Mooton, Rykker who has knelt, and many others are creating a barricade. And that barricade closes every day.”

 

“Has Rhaegar shown our enemies the dragon yet?” Viserys asks innocently, though the question was anything but.

 

Lucerys gawked and he amusingly looked like a fish. “My prince… uh, do you, my lady- I mean your grace, my queen uh what does the young prince mean by that?” Lucerys looked like fish out of water. Maybe she’ll bring Viserys to every meeting just to see how people react to questions from a child raise in Aerys’s mad court.

 

“The traitors, men who sided against us of course.” She replied with a smile.

 

“Ahh, yes, of course, but what does show the dragon mean?” Lucerys paled at that, he was a member of Aerys’s court in the beginning of his last days, he probably has an idea of what Viserys means.

 

“Has Rhaegar pardoned, executed, or fined any lord that sided with Aerys yet,” they began their ascent, the Red Keep was so close it was like a behemoth.

 

“The king wishes to be crowned first to give some strength to the decrees he makes regarding the traitors,” Lucerys breathed a sigh of relief. “Now that you are here, the coronation should be underway soon.”

 

The welcoming party in the outer yard of the Red Keep was ten times bigger than hers at the River Gate. Her son stood there holding Aegon close. Rhaenys was nowhere in sight, nor was Elia. Rhaella’s stomach dropped. Beside her son stood various lords. Lords Stark, Lannister, Arryn, Tarly, and much, much more. All dressed in finery, knights and men-at-arms stood guard all along the yard. Ser Barristan gave her a smile and nod when their eyes met, Sers Lewyn, Arthur, Gerold, Jaime, and Oswell were missing.

 

“My son,” she dipped into a graceful curtsey. Viserys followed suit by bowing like a child, Lucerys bowed elegantly, Varys who had rode a horse behind their litter bowed even more opulently, even with his girth. Rhaegar’s smile was so miserable and strained, Rhaella wanted to embrace him right there.

 

“Mother, I have missed you,” Aegon was reaching for her. It seemed he remembered her. She deftly took him. Kissed his face all over and relished in his baby giggles and screams. “Now that you are here,” he turned to Lord Arryn. “Start the preparations lord hand. The crown and war await.” He held out his arm for her. “May we speak privately?”

 

She nodded and told Viserys to go with his handmaiden to his chambers. Rhaella fell into step beside Rhaegar. When the strain of carrying Aegon up the steps showed Rhaegar took him back. Side by side Aegon looked like a miniature copy of his father. He played in his father’s hair that was shorter. Cut to his ears, not below his shoulders like usual.

 

“You’ve cut your hair,” she brushed a strand behind his ear. “I’ll miss it.”

“It wasn’t practical for war. Some man yanked me from my horse by grabbing it at Rosby. Although the look is starting to grow on me.” They entered Rhaegar’s solar, previously Aerys’s, although it was never used. Within was a spacious, lavishly furnished room the former plainness of Aerys’s solar was gone. Tapestries depicting dragons adorned the walls, a Myrish carpet was spread out upon the floor, and ringing the room were weighty tomes and small marble sculptures of past kings. A small cot was situated in the corner. And the only thing that hadn’t changed was the great artwork of Aegon’s burning of Harrenhal. A testament to Targaryen strength to show all who dare to come into the Red Keep and plot against us.

 

Ser Barristan took his place by the door. Rhaegar pulled back the covers of the cot, and a figure she didn’t notice was there. _Rhaenys._ Rhaegar sat down Aegon, and caressed Rhaenys’s arm. “Hey, little maester. Your grandmother is here.” Rhaenys didn’t stir. Rhaegar tried a few more times, then sighed. He took his seat by the wooden desk. Rhaella sat opposite but kept an eye on her grandchildren.

 

“What is going on Rhaegar? Why is Cousin Robert a traitor? What is wrong with Rhaenys, is she not well? Where’s Elia?”

 

Rhaegar looked down. “She’s dead mother.”

 

Rhaella felt her head spin, “dead? How?”

 

“Robert sent some catspaw to do his dirty work. We still don’t know why he did such a thing, but I have some opinion on the matter.”

 

She glanced at Rhaenys and Aegon. Aegon had seemed to cuddle up to Rhaenys as if in comfort. “Could you tell me?”

 

Rhaegar glanced at Barristan. “Lannisters,” he got up and went to the table holding a flagon of what she presumed was wine. He poured himself a cup and sent an apologetic look to her stomach. She shrugged it off. “They need me to be a widower and childless. They partially botched it, sending cruel men. Rapers and a false knight. If Ser Jaime hadn’t arrived who knows what they would have done to Rhaenys.”

 

“Is she injured?” Rhaella got up then and walked to the cot. Knelt beside it and ran her fingers through Rhaenys’s silky hair.

 

“Stabbed her,” he gritted out. “My daughter, stabbed.” He swallowed his drink. Got up again to renew the fill.

 

“Your grace, that is your fourth today, perhaps- “ Barristan began.

 

“Perhaps, Royce and the others can capture Robert,” he turned to her then. “Maester Pycelle says Rhaenys will live. Suffering from nightmares constantly but will live.” He looked down then, and tears shook his frame. “He said the knife pierced her organs to reproduce before they even began to form. Said Rhaenys may never birth a child herself.” She then walked to her firstborn, her light in the dark days with Aerys, her own _little maester_. He fell into her arms sobbing, in all her life she has never seen Rhaegar break down like this.

 

 “This is all my fault! Elia. Rhaenys. They suffered and for what? If the gods told me what I would sacrifice for the crown, to remove my father. I would never of have done it, never have fallen in love. Nothing!”

 

“Don’t say that!” She rubbed circles in his back. His tears soaked her hair. “Aerys was a monster. Sooner or later he would have killed us all.” She stroked her son’s back lovingly. Then grabbed his face to look him in the eye. “And love makes us all do stupid things.” She shushed his mutterings and weak gasps for air. He buried his face back in her neck. Barristan had looked away when she looked over her son’s shoulder. It felt like hours, but Rhaegar finally calmed enough to muster words. _A king had no time for rest or sorrows._ “What is your plan now Rhaegar?”

 

He wiped his eyes and smiled at her in thanks. “Tyrell, then Lyanna. By then Robert will be captured. I have to figure out how to deal with Tywin, do you think he will reject Viserys?”

  
  
“You would give my son to Tywin,” she now rounded on her firstborn. “No, I say, never. Viserys is too influenceable, I’m still washing away the stains of your father from his clothes.”

 

He had the grace to look sheepish. “What should I do then. My men still outnumber him now, but I grow weaker daily.” He glanced at his children, as Aegon babbled and Rhaenys slept.  “Arryn is not pleased with me but when is he ever. And I think he still believes Robert should be king. Stark is leaving to lift the siege of Storm’s End, and Tarly, who honestly still distrusts me.”

 

“Have I and your tutors taught you nothing, you break yourself off. Royce in the moors, Stark in the south, Arryn kept an arm’s length away, and you haven’t bridged Tarly’s ravine yet.”

 

He looked put out then a thought came to him. She saw Rhaegar’s wheels turn. He walked to his seat. Glanced at some papers and wrote something on paper, it looked like numbers. “What if I sent half of Lannister’s men with Stark down south. Bring Lady Lysa and Jon’s daughter down.” Jon Arryn’s only child and daughter Sharra was from his second marriage. Rhaella had met her once, a wisp of a girl and shy. Sad that her mother went mad and died years ago. “Marry Jon to Lysa finally, I did make Arryn ride with me when Lord Stark got Tully’s allegiance, he wasn’t too pleased about that. And have Sharra marry her cousin Denys, make sure the Arryn line is secure.” He looked up at her, she urged him to continue with her eyes. “Give Tarly a war time position in court, possibly?” She nodded at him. “I should probably call back Uncle Aelor, Aeryk has served well, his wife and daughter are safe, he will be pleased.”

 

“And what about Robert, lift one part of the barricade he could slip through. Royce does not have enough men to cover such land…”

 

“There are some lords I still don’t trust,” he rubbed his chin. “I can place them under a loyal commander to relieve Royce and extend the search with more men.”

 

Barristan spoke up then. “A man who has distinguished himself greatly, your grace. There is only one man, and one man who has Arryn’s trust. He killed eight man at the Iron Gate.”

 

“Ser Symond Templeton?” He checked on his children when Rhaenys tossed. “He is honorable, perhaps too much like Lord Stark. But maybe a man with not a long line of great ancestors will get the job done sharper.” Her son grabbed a clean document. And began to write a rough draft of a few royal edicts. “Ser Barristan send for a maester, not Pycelle, please.” Barristan left to get one for him.

 

“Thank you, mother,” he smiled at her. A beaming one. Then he frowned and he glanced at her stomach again. “Forgive me, how long is it till…” He looked scared, and she felt scared too. One too many babes lost in her womb or cradle, and she is so old now.

 

“Five months,” she smiled at him to show she had no fear. _Be not afeard my son, I have survived worse._

 

The Little Survivor

* * *

 

By now she was used to it. The most terrifying and excruciating pain she ever felt whenever she moved, that put the switch to shame. The night terrors of that day that even her daddy can’t save her from. Only when she cradled Balerion did she feel okay, and some days she abhorred her cat fiercely. Where was he, where was her black dread when she needed him. He didn’t protect mama, nice Larra, or cold Gwyneth, or even brave Drake, they gave her sweets when mama didn’t look, and he was such a good knight. Only she did her duty, the princess. She _was_ strong.

 

Mama always said protect Aegon. And she did, when Drake was killed, she was in the corner with Balerion and Aegon playing, they never saw her. She saw the dangerous men and picked Aegon up. Ran down the hall and found his milk nurse. Told her of what happened and gave her Aegon to keep safe. But mother wasn’t. She ran back down the hall before the maid could snatch her by the back of her dress like Ser Oswell usually did. She could save mother; she knew she could. She was Princess Rhaenys, one day she would ride Meraxes and become the first female maester.

 

Whenever she opened the door in her dreams, it’s all black. Rhaenys knows what happened, of course she does. It is hard to forget, but all her memory brings up is a noiseless black. Darkness and excruciating pain. It was like when she went to the shore and tried to hold sand.

 

Aegon didn’t understand, he babbled next to her. Slapped her arm hard and tried to get her attention. Would try for what seemed like hours then cry. Even daddy didn’t understand, he looked at her with sad eyes, and she listened to him and grandmother’s conversations. She was smart, she knew it wasn’t just grief, daddy blamed himself. She blamed him too sometimes. Her great knight in black armor, the only knight for her. Like in the bedtime stories he would read. Where the knights could seemingly teleport to their ladies and protect them from robber knights and corrupt lords.

 

Only that daddy wasn’t there. No one saved her. Not even herself. And that hurt the most. She was Nymeria the Warrior Queen, mama said. Queen Rhaenys reborn, daddy said. Queen Visenya, others said. But at the end of the day she was only Rhaenys, and fairytales and stories weren’t real. And that hurt as much as the pain.

 

When daddy was crowned Rhaegar the First of His Name, King of the Andals, First Men, and Rhoynar, Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, she was still bedridden. But she knew all about it, she knew everything. It hurt to sleep, it hurt to walk, it hurt to eat, it hurt to use the privy. But listening, that never hurt.

 

She heard the conversations daddy had with Lord Tarly, naming him master of laws till war’s end. Heard Ser Symond praise her daddy and vowed to not fail to capture Robert and Ronnal alive. Listened to daddy and a man named Ned say reluctant goodbyes. She thinks daddy likes him, but she wasn’t sure. She listened but never watched. One day, in the future, she will look back on these days as the source of her political savvy, but now it was only a way to pass time.

 

It felt like years later but was truly two fortnights when she was able to walk again, albeit slowly and not for long. Her stool was bloodless, and she smiled again. She felt nothing but love for Balerion, she didn’t even hate him somedays anymore. Although she was a princess again, unknown men and women constantly interrupted her, Viserys, and grandmother’s strolls in the gardens and godswood. Always dumping condolences about her mama and remarks of glee she survived and praising her father to her. But something changed in Rhaenys as well, she used to hate this, but now she took it in stride. She measured each lord and lady, trying to understand what they wanted. _Because who didn’t want something from a princess_.

 

But not only that, a bitterness was in her heart. She hated people she had finally put faces to words whispered to daddy’s allies in the privacy of his solar. Sometimes, her thoughts scared her. Should she be thinking about this? How would daddy and mama feel if they knew she thought this way? _Would daddy leave again?_

 

She tried to play with Viserys again, but he was different as well. More eccentric in play, not as fun as before. _And he always wanted to be a dragon_.

 

She would feign illness somedays to be allowed in daddy’s solar just to be able to hear everything. But she thinks daddy realizes now, for he just smiles and says, “Curious, little maester?” She learns new things every time, and commits it to memory, like her histories. Some man named Tyrell was riding north with an entourage of a thousand lords and knights, which daddy found incredulous. A different Lord Baratheon, not the scary Robert man and the man in the dark, one named Stannis was being taken by wheelhouse to here, because he was too weakened. Tywin had dispatched the rest of his army home under his brother Kevan, who is to meet Tywin’s daughter near the castle named Deep Den and return to King’s Landing. There is unrest in the riverlands, something to do with Lord Tully’s attacks against loyal Targaryen families to then side with the Targaryens, Lord Lychester has rebelled, alongside Lord Smallwood’s nephews. Then there’s Blackwood-Bracken unrest.

 

There were also some men at court who are displeased. Morrigen and Penrose, they lost sons and cousins in the Stormlands, then more at the Iron Gate. “Barking about promises from a traitor,” daddy remarked to Lord Arryn, who never looked comfortable when they talked about the scary man.

 

By the time she was walking, marriages were occurring, it seemed like so many. Jon Arryn married the young lady Lysa Tully, although she seemed very displeased by it. Arryn’s cousin married his daughter Sharra. She was pretty and small, with dark blonde hair and shy blue eyes. Her bridegroom was tall and fit, he had brown hair and brown eyes. Not long after Lord Tully left for the Riverlands to quell Lychester’s revolt and the Blackwood-Bracken conflict. Lord Hightower married for a third time to a Pellaeon, Aenar’s daughter, and cousin Lucerys’s granddaughter married Alric Pellaeon, Aenar’s heir. Several stormlanders married some loyal lords and ladies. The only interesting event was when Lord Morrigen stormed from his nuptials before they were bound. His bride a lady of House Templeton was left crying at the alter from the embarrassment. Ser Symond watched with hardened eyes, and at the feasts that night for the weddings, promised to cripple Robert himself.

 

Ser Jaime was pardoned, and forever dubbed the Kingslayer. Daddy named Ser Preston Greenfield to the Kingsguard, for his skill and duty in quelling the King’s Gate during the battle. The Lord of Lannister held a feast that night to celebrate both of these things. Rhaenys attended with Ser Barristan and they were given a place of honor. She had to make excuses for her daddy who was meeting with the small council in an emergency meeting.

 

The feast was not too bad, there was a singer who tried to endure himself to Lord Tywin by singing the Rain of Castamere three times. The food was not all to appealing with no one she liked to eat it with beside Ser Barristan. Rhaenys didn’t talk to anyone, not Barristan for everyone talked to him, not Ser Jaime who looked tired from his house arrest, Lady Cersei who was speaking to her as if they were family, and Lord Tywin’s hard gaze. He wasn’t the only one giving her a hard gaze, the man with two crossed quills on his tunic was heavily drinking and watching her. When Lord Penrose leveled a gloating stare under a shelf of red hair. Rhaenys felt extremely uncomfortable. Sickly reminded of the thing she doesn’t want to remember. She turned to her right, away from Cersei talking about her father to Barristan. “Ser Barristan,” she called. “May we leave. I’m not feeling well.”

 

Barristan gave her that look everyone gave her, sad and understanding. “Of course, your highness.” He rose and extended his hand; she placed her small hand in his larger one and together they left the feast. As they left the Great Hall, and walked the middle bailey, Rhaenys felt wrong. The yard was empty, given the feast and most of the armies had left now but it still confused her. And it was quiet, only the distant thrum from the Great Hall. Rhaenys glanced at Barristan and he looked displeased. He looked right and left, seeking something or someone. The sun was setting and casting the Red Keep in a beautiful warm purple-red glow. A scenery that was an antithesis to the cool and scary feeling of the bailey. When the serpentine steps came into view, she heard something like a fall.

 

Barristan searched around and glanced at the walls. She followed suit, but there weren’t any guards on duty. “Princess, I do not know what is going on but stay close to me.” Rhaenys clutched the knight’s hand harder. As they walked to the steps, Rhaenys felt something tell her to stop. She stopped and Barristan gave her a look.

 

“I haven’t seen Uncle Lew yet, may I go see him,” she asked sweetly. Her Uncle Lewyn was injured in the battle by a cut to his side. Since she had been sick, she had been unable to see him, but Maester Pycelle told daddy he would live, just healing much slower because of his age and restlessness to get back to duty. And maybe if they went another way the feeling of being watched would pass them.

 

As they turned in the direction of the White Sword Tower, a man blocked their path. A sweet smell came from him, smells that reminded Rhaenys of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting.

 

“Princess, this is not a safe place to be,” the sweet-smelling man said.

 

“Lord Varys,” Barristan called with a little edge. “You’re in the presence of Princess Rhaenys, what is your purpose?”

 

“Nothing,” he tittered, caressing his hands beneath voluminous sleeves of great length. “Just keeping an eye on the little princess. There is so many enemies going around. So many even my little birds have a hard time pecking at each nest.”

 

“You have little birds,” she asked. Curious of how he could control and own birds.

 

He giggled, his voice was surprisingly thin and high of a man of his girth. “The innocence of children,” he sighed, in memory or of knowledge unknown she didn’t know. “Oh, how I wish to be young again.” His eyes darted in the direction of the great hall; a couple of lords drunk walked past. “It seems my time here is done. Birds are calling and the princess has an uncle to see.”

 

When he walked past Barristan, the old knight grabbed his arm. “I don’t know what game you’re playing Varys. But leave the princess out of it, she has suffered enough.”

 

“Oh, I know, I know, but if you knew what I know there would be praises for what I have done tonight.” He softly wrenched free of Barristan’s grasp. “Though cockless men usually don’t get the honors.”

 

Barristan put his hand on the pommel of his sword. Varys eyed it eerily, unafraid, but curious of what could come. He spun around gracefully and looked at her. His eyes were cold but kind. “Remember princess, there is only one game that truly matters here. It’s best you learn now than later. There’s always an enemy lurking. Trust no one, even me, even your good knight Ser Barristan. No one.” He started towards the great hall again.

 

“I told you to leave her out of your games Varys,” Barristan had anger in his voice now.

 

“Who said she wasn’t already in the game. The game of thrones leaves no one unscathed.” And with that Varys walked away into the shadows. And with him maybe the last piece of innocence Rhaenys maintained.

 

The Light of the West

* * *

 

Her chance was soon. What she was groomed for all her life. Even if her chance was almost squandered by a mad man, a frail Dornish wench, and a wolf bitch. But her chance was soon, no matter how much embarrassment and indignation she felt from being passed over twice by the Dragon Prince.

 

She often dreamt of what would happen if Rhaegar had taken her to a tower in Dorne and not Lyanna. Would her father and Jaime be dead? Would they survive and rise up in rebellion or would her father use it as an opportunity to get his final wish. A man of Lannister blood on the throne. _Would Tyrion rise up in my defense with father and Jaime dead?_ Probably not, he was still a boy, and she didn’t ever want to feel as hopeless to rely on the imp. No matter how cunning the brat was.

 

She smoothed her dress one last time; she had a private dinner with her family tonight and wanted to look her best as always. Her handmaidens dressed her in a long billowing dress of crimson silk, with sleeves of golden Myrish lace, that allowed slivers of pale skin to show. She put her hair up into an elaborate bun of braids and dawned a sheer gold necklace with an emerald as big as a pigeon egg. A gift from her father not too long ago. When he met her before leaving with his army to go to King’s Landing and join Rhaegar.

 

“Our time is now,” he said. “Rhaegar will have need of a wife soon.”

 

“But Elia, and Lyanna.” She had to strain herself to not say Dornish wench and wolf bitch, so it came out as hesitant and insecure.

 

“Oh, Cersei,” he rose, walked to her and placed a cold hand on her shoulder. Hard green eyes flecked with gold and cold cat-green eyes disguised as soft met. “Nothing is ever set in stone.”

 

And nothing was. Elia was dead and Lyanna stuck in a tower down south. Father’s pressure on Lord Arryn and Rhaegar will soon come to fruition. She will be queen and would be remembered for generations as the woman who brought the kingdom to its greatest heights.

 

Though two things stood in her way, and soon to be a third. Named Rhaenys, Aegon, and Lyanna’s unborn bastard. _Even if Rhaegar claims to have married her,_ she scoffed. These three obstacles blocked her path to the throne and her future sons. Not for long though, her father had a plan. And they were to discuss it after dinner tonight.

 

Finally, her uncles Tygett and Gerion arrived to escort her. “You’re late,” she hissed.

 

“I’ll say just on time,” Uncle Gerion smirked insufferably.

 

“Apologies, Cersei. Gerry wanted to get a few more bruises before dinner tonight,” Tygett remarked with a cruel glint directed at Gerion. Gerion shrugged but winced while doing so, purple bruising stretching along his collar bone.

 

She liked Uncle Tygett better than most. He was his own man, wasn’t in her father’s shadow as Kevan and Gerion was too similar to an annoying dwarf for her liking. They left the Maidenvault and walked to the outer yard where a litter and an escort of several of her father’s guards awaited her. Tygett helped her into the litter as Gerion mounted his pristine blood bay stallion and organized the guards into formation. Three in front, four on each side, and ten behind.

 

Her father’s manse, well really it was under Uncle Gerion’s name was located in the shadows of Visenya’s Hill for shade, and west of Muddy Way. Father abhorred having a conversation as the one he was about to have in the walls of the Red Keep. Already one ploy had been found out, but Rhaegar seemed oblivious to the machinations of her father and his master of whispers.

 

The walled manse was three stories tall, and had an iron gate rimmed with stone lions, roaring. Servants were already underfoot as she arrived, trying to find space for the guards’ horses, while others were setting some tables for guards to have food while their lords had supper. It reeked of Gerion. And she said as much.

 

“Kindness isn’t always a weakness niece,” Gerion said with a slight frown.

 

Gerion’s manse was plain as he didn’t live here often, some expensive furniture on the ground floor, and two bedrooms and one waiting room. But the second floor held an audience room lined in gold covered mirrors, and two great wooden planks welded together as a table, Gerion claimed came from one of Aegon’s ships when he crossed the Blackwater. Gerion called it his Hall of Mirrors, Tygett under his breath called it a Hall of Flattery. But the flattery was nice as Cersei caught glimpses of herself in the mirrors as she found her seat between her father and Uncle Kevan.

 

She felt queer being the only woman here in the presence of such great man as her father and uncles. But once the meal was served, she found it to be quite like suppers at Casterly Rock, silent but no tension. A capon served in garlic and thyme sauce, and chopped turnips. Accompanied by a white wine from the southern Westerlands and some hot bread.

 

Halfway through as father finished his capon and began on his bread he spoke. “You did good last night, Cersei.” He chewed slowly. “Get under the girl’s skin, get her to trust you.”

 

The _brat,_ she thought. Rhaenys ignored all she said at Jaime’s feast, barely said a word but to give condolences for why her father could not attend and to be excused. She was mad she couldn’t charm the brat, but she will one day. “Speaking of which, where’s Jaime?”

 

The room chilled further. “Being a servant, like always,” father sipped his wine.

 

“I’m assuming he didn’t agree,” Kevan sighed. Tygett smirked at her father failing again with his heir. Gerion ignored it all.

 

“What happened?” She asked.

 

“Your brother refuses to do his duty to his family. If I can’t trust him to do his obligation to his family, how can I trust him with our secrets.”

 

“But won’t it be a good to have one more Lannister at court when I become queen,” she tried.

 

“There will be plenty here then, don’t forget you must rule the court when you are queen.” After that they continued with their supper till the servants bore the food away. Gerion called guards and ordered his servants to take the night off. As the guards blocked the door to the Hall of Flattery, and roamed the manse and grounds, then did the treason begin.

 

“Ronnal Baratheon was a bigger fool than I thought,” Tygett said. “I told you numerous times to let me do it.”

 

“And have the news of it around the Seven Kingdoms as Robert’s is. How would you attacking Princess Elia have helped us?” Kevan said.

 

“Jaime would have let it happen if it was me,” Tygett smirked.

 

“I wonder about that,” father casually said. “He did get rid of any trace of Lannister involvement, but you there would raise too many alarms. Even if only Jaime survived the confrontation.”

 

Then father turned to Gerion. “What happened last night? I thought you said Morrigen and Penrose were on our side.”

 

“They were, but they reneged,” he didn’t look father in the eyes. Ashamed of failing or the duty being pressed on him Cersei did not know. “Penrose said Varys was there.” Then he looked up, a rebellious glint in his eye. “How can we trust these stormlords? One already failed, and maybe the promises to get their rebellious castles and families unharmed won’t sway them for long, Lord Stark is already marching to put the Stormlands to rights.”

 

Penrose’s and Morrigen’s castles and remaining families were in open rebellion down south. Lord Jast was given command to bring Parchments to the knee, and Lord Pellaeon to bring Crow’s Nest’s surrender. Lord Stark was supposed to do it, but he left the commands in capable hands and took twenty men to the tower of joy.

 

“Jast will be merciful, he’s loyal. Pellaeon possibly not. They are bannermen of the Starks and are staunchly Targaryen loyalists,” her father spit out. The Pellaeon’s were just upjumped stablehands of the Targaryens in Valyria. Now they held one of the largest herds of horses, aurochs, and northern bison in Westeros. “There is no reason to assume the Old Warhorse will take the Crow’s Nest nicely.” He glared at Tygett, “If only you had gone with Lord Stark like I ordered.”

 

He shrugged, “I go where I want. I’m family, not a household knight.”

 

“You’re a Lannister,” father was half sitting half rising as he spoke.

 

“Somedays, others I’m just Tygett,” he rose as well. Tywin and Tygett were of the same height, the same height as Jaime. But Tywin was a little wiry, and Tygett was stocky. Even though Tygett was bigger he was on his back foot. Tywin was the head lion, the leader of this pride.

 

“Fine, since you don’t want to be a Lannister perhaps a good banishment would do you some good.”

 

“Perhaps,” Tygett’s voice had lowered.

 

“Leave then, I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night.”

 

“Tywin,” Kevan and Gerion started.

 

“Leave! All of you. Is this what we are now. As incompetent as father!” he snarled at them. He waved his hand. Kevan grabbed Tygett’s arm and bore him from the room, but Gerion looked put off as he followed, as this was theoretically his manse. When she rose, father sent a look that said to _sit_.

 

“I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.” He ordered cryptically. But the order wasn’t lost on her. “Don’t disappoint me like your brothers.” She rose from her seat and needed to find out how to get Rhaegar to love her, if not than convince him to marry her. It was his only choice of course. Perhaps, Aegon would be a better king if Rhaegar didn’t make the right choice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon will appear next chapter and I didn't know how i wanted him to look, and since people are reading this which I didn't expect I will let you decide. I had three choices, vanilla Jon, Targaryen Jon, or a mixture of Stark and Targaryen features. If there's another option say it. Also Rhaenys has full Valyrian features so let that help your decision.


	5. The End of an Era: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned meets Jon Snow (Prince Aemon Targaryen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my least favourite chapter to write. There was supposed to be another POV, but it didn't feel right so I'm just posting this one. It's very short.

The Quiet Wolf

* * *

 

_Gods, what was the point?_ His knees hurt, stung, bleed. Coarse stone dug into his knees, but that was nothing compared to Ned’s heart and mind. Lyanna’s hand had gone cold hours before, but still Ned held on for something, anything. Every after death move of her body got his hopes up to only dash them again. The first time he had experienced the movements of a dead body was now, he has never moved any bodies before now.

 

Although he didn’t kill Lyanna, but it surely felt like he did. He should have been here faster. If he didn’t sleep, he would have been here days earlier.

 

Or maybe it’s a good thing he wasn’t. He saw her last moments after wasting away for days. _I don’t think he could live through seeing that._ He clutched her hand harder; they were like sticks. Cold, dry, and thin.

 

But that was only the surface of his guilt. For hours he realized all this began with that one damn letter to father.

 

“The death of her father and brother wasted her away daily,” Ser Gerold said when he closed her eyes.

 

“She shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” Ned barked.

 

“Where would we have gone? We were in hiding here. Robert to the north, the Viper of Dorne to the south. We had to stay here,” Oswell argued.

 

“A maester or a midwife would have been ideal. It’s a prince she was carrying,” Ned said.

 

“Too many variables. We did what we had to do to protect Prince Aemon. And there was a midwife, she left as soon as Prince Aemon was born.”

 

Ned had bared his fangs at that. “Is that all you care about? A prince?! Leave me and Lyanna!” That was hours ago. Every hour a new man came up the steps to pry Lyanna’s cold hands from his warm ones. Ethan Glover and Martyn Cassel had almost accomplished that twice, but Ned resisted.

 

Ned’s mind was muddled. He was here in the tower, but not there at the same time. He searched Lyanna’s long face for the young woman who would ride a horse laughing, and only found new stress lines. Brows were creased and her cheeks gaunt. _She suffered until the end, and where was I. Sleeping in a bedroll on a dry hill in the Marches smiling about what I would say to her._

 

“We wanted to name him Aemon,” she gasped. “But I always loved the name Jon.”

 

“He can be both,” Ned responded as he put a hand on her forehead and pushed back her hair, caressing it. Her curls wet with sweat and frizzy. “Promise me Ned, protect him. Promise me.”

 

“I do, I promise, you know I do,” he sobbed.

 

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered. Her face in agony when she tried to move.

 

“You won’t. You’re so strong, I’ve always admired that,” tears streaked his face.

 

Her left hand touched his cheek, her eyes sad. “My days are done, Ned.” He choked out a sob. “Do you think father and Brandon forgive me?”

 

“Of course, what’s there to forgive,” he said incredulous.

 

“I killed them Ned, I was so selfish, and they died because of it,” she cried.

 

“No, a mad man did that. He’s dead, and their souls rest in a grove of weirwoods for eternity,” her eyes closed in thanks and never opened again. “Promise me,” she whispered one last time.

 

Ned felt a new presence behind him, he knew who it was immediately. “Go away Howland,” he commanded.

 

“No, I have my duty to my liege lord. And he’s wasting away in a tower.” He placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“No, I’m mourning, now leave please.”

 

“you know I can’t do that,” he responded. “You’ve been here for almost a day, on your knees. Not eating, sleeping, or using the privy.”

 

“And Lyanna’s dead,” he countered. “Nothing matters anymore.”

 

“Your nephew does,” Howland’s voice was hard now.

 

His nephew, his prince. He worried about the boy as well, mostly that he would be motherless with a king for a father. He knew Jon wouldn’t survive here, but he couldn’t pull himself away from Lyanna. He shook his head and stared at Lyanna’s face.

 

“If we stay here, he will die. This tower wasn’t made for a babe, let alone a royal babe. He needs a new milknurse Ned.”

 

“Just go without me,” Ned wanted to stay here. With Lyanna and his grief. He killed men for nothing. He accomplished none of his goals. And it was all his fault too. That _damn_ letter seemed to enter his mind near constantly now. He tried to be a great matchmaker like Alysanne or Rhaenys. Failed disastrously. Him and Sharra, Robert and Lyanna, and since Brandon and Catelyn were already marrying, it would have been a great Northern Alliance. He was just trying to help father’s dream, and it led to his death, and thousands of others. And none of those marriages actually happened.

 

“Forgive me Ned,” he barely heard Howland’s mumbled words, before arms were hosting him up. Two men-at-arms he brought were grabbing him. He went without a struggle; his knees were too numb to move. Howland gave a hard look at Ned’s knees. The men carried him down to the second floor of the tower where the Kingsguard slept. They placed him lightly on a hard cot.

 

Howland sat on a small wooden stool and opened a bag. “Drink this,” he said with a hard voice.

 

“What is it,” Ned asked as he grabbed it. The inside was a chalky green color.

 

“An old Crannogman recipe. Like milk of the poppy,” he tipped the cup to Ned’s mouth. It tasted as it looked, swampy and chalky. But the effects were immediate, like a magic tonic, Ned’s eyes grew dim. As he faded, he barely felt Howland administer to his knees.

 

This time Ned did not dream, it was black till his eyes started to blink, his body swaying, and his mind registering noise. He found himself in a wayn being pulled by a horse. On that horse was no other than Ser Gerold, the White Bull. He turned his head at the stirring behind him. “Lord Stark! We feared you would never awaken again.”

 

Ned cracked his stiff neck. “Where’s Howland? Where are we?” He looked out the wayn and found his surroundings to be green and lush. It looked peaceful; no armies had come through here. Nobody has died.

 

“Were north of Summerhall. On the way to King’s Landing. Were about ten days out.”

 

“Let me off,” Gerold hesitantly stopped, and eyed him cautiously. He got of the wayn that held armor, and some chests. Martyn Cassel trotted up to him. “My lord,” he smiled. “You’re awake! Thank the Old Gods.” He waved at a man behind him. “Get milord’s horse, now!”

 

As Ned mounted his stolen horse, now cover in trappings of wolves of grey and white. He turned to a smiling Martyn, “What is it?”

 

“Nothing, milord. I’m just happy you’re not in a tower wasting away.”

 

“Not by choice,” Ned muttered. Martyn frowned. They galloped to catch up to the caravan. They reined up in the flank, guarded by Theo Wull and Ser Oswell Whent. Whent sent Ned a dark look that promised words later. But Theo greeted Ned with a smile and a heavy pat on the back. “Where’s my nephew?”

 

Oswell studied him, trying to see if Ned was still sane. “With Arthur near the front. The second wayn.” Ned put his spurs to his horse and raced to the front. Ned felt ready now, his nephew was the child of his sister. He needed to see him. _To see him in the light of the sun, or to find traces of Lyanna in nephew,_ Ned mused. He was conflicted.

 

Arthur gave him a surprised nod in greeting, silver-blonde hair falling into his purple eyes. One of Ned’s men was pulling the wayn beside Arthur, this was the most heavily guarded wayn in the caravan with guards on either side. Mark Ryswell on the right side, and Istvan Pellaeon guarded the rear. In the wayn was a short woman holding a babe close swaddled in dun brown cloths. She eyed him warily, and Ned can understand, he probably seemed mad days ago. “May I,” he asked her.

 

She stood and handed him his nephew over the wayn’s side barriers. The weight of him scared him instantly. But when beheld the babe, Jon smiled, and he felt tears come. He was beautiful, Lyanna reborn. He had a long face already at barely a month. His nose looked similar to Lyanna’s not as aquiline as Rhaegar’s. His hair was as silky-smooth and curly as Lyanna’s and Ned’s father. The color wasn’t Lyanna’s though, pure white silver, with a few gold strands threaded in. Near his forehead a few strands formed a brown streak through his hair. Less a dragonstreak and more a wolfstreak. His eyes were closed, but he hoped they were Lyanna’s silver, a silver so light it always glowed. As he thought that Jon’s eyes opened sleepily, he yawned. Silver met grey, and Ned felt tears in his eyes. He was all Lyanna beside the hair. He rode beside the wayn for a long time, but never let go of his nephew.

 

He was glad this was his first time seeing the babe in the light. In the tower he knew he was losing it; he has felt he has been losing it the entire war. Mind muddled, unease attacks came more and more frequent. But holding Jon, he felt whole again. His child and Jon will be the best of friends he knows it. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Jon will only ever know the love his mother felt for him, Ned promised right there and then.

 

For the next fifteen days or so, he was there never far from his nephew. Played and held him when broke for camp, watched on his horse as he rode beside the Prince’s wayn. Jon was even with him in council when he met up with the Old Warhorse and Lords Jast and a one-armed Endymion.

 

When the walls of King’s Landing came into view, he smiled. Pellaeon had letters for Ned, two, both from Catelyn. She was in King’s Landing, with his son, a babe she named Robb. Rhaegar gave his blessings to the name, if maybe reluctantly. She was so happy, and it showed in her words. And if Ned felt as much for Robb as he did for Jon, he would die for them both. He got his commanders to see to the men’s accommodations. Many of high birth would find housing in the Red Keep and in inns throughout the city, while those of lesser birth will be outside camped beneath the walls.

 

The welcome party at the Red keep was massive. Many ladies and lords were anxious. He saw many looking for a woman to come riding in like a centaur, it made him want to cry. He held Jon in his arms, and he could see people craning their necks to see what it was. He found Cat beside her uncle, her sister, and Jon Arryn. His eyes drifted to the left and found Sharra and saw Denys’ arm around her waist. He sent him a gloating smirk. Ned wanted to punch the ass, he always hated Ned. And he knew of the crush he and Sharra had for each other in their younger days.

 

He sent his gaze back to Cat and saw her trying as well to see what was in his arms. Her smile dropped when she realized what it was, but Ned shook his head at her. A subtle promise it was not his. He dismounted with care, the Kingsguard formed up beside him, as Ethan Glover rode in with the wayn carrying Lyanna’s wooden casket.

 

Rhaegar was in the middle of the crowd of nobles, by him his children, mother, and brother. His eyes told all. From here he could even see his knees shaking. Ned walked forward, the Kingsguard following. They knelt in front of the king. He stretched his arms out to him. “My king,” he kept his eyes downcast. “I present your son, Prince Aemon.”

 

The yard was silent. When Ned glanced up Rhaegar was staring at Aemon. His face construed in grief. “And Lyanna?”

 

“She didn’t survive the birth, your grace,” Gerold said. Ned eyed the king. He was holding in his tears it was obvious. He had to be a king of strength but right now he was suffering inside. Ned knew that look; the look he knew others saw in him just days earlier.

 

“Mother,” he choked out. Rhaella came forward to grab Aemon. Ned felt his absence immediately. “Gerold, Arthur, Oswell escort me and my family to our Maegor’s Holdfast.” As soon as the words left his mouth Rhaegar and Ser Arthur hurried away, as fast as one could walk without running. The others took their time. Rhaella was cooing at Aemon as she walked, his tiny, pale hands were reaching for her face, and little legs kicking in joy.

 

The crowd broke apart as soon as Rhaegar ran away. Some crowded around Ned’s travel companions, others came to him. Jon Arryn came to him. “Are you okay my boy?” His firm hand on Ned’ shoulder made him feel like he was home again. He could only nod.

 

Lysa sent condolences, Denys followed by with a look that said he did not care but propriety stated he said how sad he was for Ned’s lost. Sharra gave him a tight embrace and peck on his cheek.

 

Blackfish gave him a warriors’ embrace, grabbing his forearm and bringing him in. Over his shoulders Ned found Cat. She held a bundle as well he realized now. He left the Blackfish and came to his wife, she smiled so prettily. “Your son, my lord.”

 

“May I,” he asked, eager as a child for sweets. She laughed and carefully handed him Robb. He was as pretty as Jon was, it seemed all babies were cute to Ned. His red hair was longer than Jon’s, and his eyes were as blue as a summer sky. “He’s perfect,” he smiled at Cat.

 

She returned the smile, and Ned believed he could fall into those eyes for days. “I had servants prepare a bath and supper in our chambers when they spotted your army,” her smile was shy.

 

“You want to share a chamber,” he smiled. She nodded. “Thank you, my lady. That pleases me greatly.” He kissed her cheek. “Will Robb be staying with us?”

 

“No, Rhaegar gave me use of the royal nursery. I couldn’t refuse.”

 

“Nonsense. I’m not letting this one out of my sight tonight,” he smiled at Robb and Cat.

 

“Are you sure,” Cat blushed beautifully. “Robb wakes easily and can be loud when he’s hungry.”

 

“Then I’ll be quiet,” Ned said as a jape about his snoring. But Cat’s cheeks and neck was as red as a cherry. Ned for the life of him couldn’t understand.

 

That night he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't watch this episode of Game of Thrones, mostly because i was returning on a road trip from DC, and Twitter was blowing up about it. So I'm sorry to all Dany and Jonerys fans out there on behalf of the ASOIAF community.


	6. The End of an Era: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei's plans happen, Rhaenys faces one last threat, Rhaella witnesses sacrifice, Ned leaves, the Blackfish and Templeton's company finally leaves, Jaime has too many vows, and Connington looks for answers in the bottom of a bottle and finds it in someone.

The Light of the West

She had been smiling for days. Her plans would finally be completed soon. Father was to present a case before the small council as every other lord with a daughter, niece, or sister of marriageable age has been doing, since Lord Stark returned with his sister’s remains. From one of Cersei’s spies, a servant woman servicing Maegor’s Holdfast, Cersei learned of Rhaegar’s sadness over the wolf bitch’s untimely death in the women’s war. All she had to do was gladden him up, who can resist a woman’s charms in grief. She learned the lesson early. And she planned to use it to her example. If that didn’t work, Cersei still had a plan B, a plan she intended to follow through with no matter what. While Rhaegar was mourning the wolf bitch the death of his daughter would surely send him over the rails in a few days.

 

She scoffed under her breath as Jaime turned over and draped an arm over her. She smirked triumphantly into his arm. She and Jaime had finally become one as they were meant to be since birth. Jaime will be tied to her forever, and once she is queen and him her Kingsguard, they can have as much time to themselves as possible. And rule the Seven Kingdoms in the shadows as the beginning of a new dynasty.

 

She scrambled into his arms and burrowed her face into his chest, as her thoughts betrayed her. Father said Jaime refused to do something for the family weeks ago, and she had guessed then and Uncle Tygett confirmed it later. Her twin, her other half, refused to step aside to allow father’s cutthroats to kill Rhaenys and Aegon. How can he be her other-half and so weak, where was the proud, charming blonde lion? Jaime yelled at father claiming he wouldn’t be like Ser Mervyn Flowers, a traitor in history Cersei doesn’t have time to read about.

 

“I killed for her,” Tygett said Jaime told father. “I won’t allow no one else to kill her.”

 

Cersei rejected all of Jaime’s advances till father told her that since the majority of the Kingsguard have returned to court, there was no way to kill Rhaenys and Aegon without hurting themselves. They were to focus on letting the brats live for now, at least, father ordered at supper two nights ago. Cersei did not like it. Leave no enemies left alive and they can’t come back to haunt you, father said once. That was mercy, and a lion cannot have mercy. _She has to be the strong one again._ That’s why she talked to Lords Morrigen and Penrose in secret, they will continue despite Gerion telling them not to. Not to mention the plants her uncle Kevan placed in their scapegoat’s solar should the plan backfire were still there according to Tygett.

 

Should she feel guilty for ruining a man’s life for her own ambitions. Cersei did not know, but his death would be the best for this realm. The king needed Lannister children to truly bind this war-tattered country together.

 

The stormlords have an extra target, the bastard prince, Aemon now. _I hope their incompetence will not be for naught._ Or as the wolf bitch’s brother goes around calling him, Jon. The bastard was her worst nightmare, a constant reminder of what Rhaegar lost and could have had. He looked sufficiently like his mother, with those damn eyes and that long face. For reasons unknown to her that infuriated her, but he also looked like Rhaegar and that pissed her off even more.

 

But maybe she wouldn’t have to lift a finger. The nurses and milkmaids tell tales, and all say the Crown Prince Aegon dislikes his new brother. Has already hit him twice. If this continues than maybe Aegon will get rid of his brother like Maekar did Baelor. She giggled as her plan came together. If Penrose and Morrigen were as incompetent as they seemed, then she would mold Aegon into her Lyanna hating mechanism, and hopefully Aegon and Aemon will kill themselves.

 

Jaime stirred then. He blinked open cat-green eyes still sleepy. He sighed and ran a hand through her blonde locks, she sighed into his touch. They stayed there as Jaime held her close. She had to leave soon, the sun will rise and being seen leaving the White Sword Tower in the light of day in servant’s drab would cause to many questions. Cersei looked at Jaime’s face, he looked annoyed. She bristled inside in irritation.

 

“Are you still mad,” she teased him.

 

He scoffed. “Of course. I was the first in the Prince’s Tower and I am being ordered to stay away from Templeton’s retinue. I failed, but I want another chance at that man. And their denying me my chance.”

 

“Maybe the king thinks you will let him go.”

 

“Let him go? I fought this _Ser_ Ronnal till he dishonorably lied about my companion.”

 

“Or because you knew he was father’s pawn,” she smirked at him.

 

“Don’t. I told father I wouldn’t help him. I helped him once, no more.”

 

Indignation rose from deep inside her. “He has done everything for this family, and you won’t step aside once?”

 

“They are the king’s children,” he looked alarmed by her words.

 

“They stand in the way of your nephews’ and nieces’ destinies,” she felt her voice rise.

 

“Cersei leave it be. Marry my future niece to Aegon and she will be queen, you don’t need to do this.”

 

His words annoyed her, _why couldn’t he help her once, help the family for once. Must she do everything for this family?_ “Leave me,” she ordered and turned her head up petulantly at him.

 

“These are my chambers,” he said in annoyance. She glared him down and did a dismissing gesture with her hand till he moved.

 

“I have to go to training anyhow,” he remarked. Once he dawned a tunic and breeches, he leaned down for a kiss she rejected. “Love you to sweet sister.” When he left annoyed and rejected, she rolled off his bed and gathered her servant’s drab and left the tower in the shadows

 

No matter about Jaime she would finish her mission, father said by any means. As she entered the yard, men were riding in at a breakneck speed in the dark. Their torches shined on their faces and made them seem like hard and cold men. The lead rider looked at her, “You! Run and get the stablemaster and the steward!” He had dark hair and big, bright blue eyes, tired, sad, and afraid.

 

“I’m no servant. I am Cersei of House Lannister,” she called back. He studied her face and examined her dress again. He nodded and dismounted.

 

“I’m Ser Vardis Egen, I serve Lord Arryn. If you will excuse me,” she backed away as Ser Vardis ordered his men to dismount and grabbed a servant who came running at the commotion and sent him to find the steward. Cersei studied the men shortly before leaving for a little more sleep. They all had dark faces. One looked had a fearful look in his fire glinted eyes. One was praying holding a crude wooden seven-pointed star to his lips. _They don’t look like they found Robert._ The opposite actually, they looked like they let him slip through their hands.

* * *

 

The Little Survivor

He looked more like his cousin than her and Egg, even with the hair they all shared. She had snuck in here three times already, but still she felt nothing. Her little brother was small, smaller than Egg. She didn’t like the brown-streak in his hair, she thought as she caressed his hair. It reminded Rhaenys of her mother in some morbid way. The suffering she had to endure for this boy, who was supposed to be a girl, to come in this world.

 

Daddy said as she was the oldest it was her duty to protect her younger brothers, same as he would protect all of them. But she knows daddy hasn’t even been in the royal nursery since he introduced her and Egg to Aemon.

 

She didn’t even like his name. _Aemon._ What a dull name. There’s only one great Aemon in history. The Dragonknight, but he was a traitor to many sycophants of Aegon IV and the Blackfyres, and he was possibly their ancestor. She liked his nickname better, the one his uncle called him, _Jon._ It suited a northern lord more than a prince, and that’s what he was to her. A northern lord not knowing his place. Even Egg didn’t like him, always hitting Jon till he cried, even then some more while he was crying.

 

Her bitter handmaid Bessie began to complain that her husband and sons died at Rosby for this bastard prince to be born as soon as Jon took up residence in the royal nursery. The way she spit out the words made Rhaenys uncomfortable, even if she didn’t like Aemon or Jon, she didn’t hate him. Coincidentally, Bessie had said it too loudly, and the next day she was replaced with a new handmaiden, one of noble birth, Lady Maude Hayford, sister of the man who died to save her.

 

She was nice, she had curling blonde hair that reminded Rhaenys of Lady Gwyneth. And she adored Egg and Jon. Maude didn’t even know why or ask, but whenever Rhaenys would sneak into the royal nursery she was with her, cooing at the Starks. Sometimes Rhaenys saw a woman who would dress her and care for her like a mother, but some days she remembered Maude was only ten and four. Ten years older than her.

 

The smell of milk permeated every corner inside the royal nursery and was too quiet. But Rhaenys currently had nowhere else to go or do that interested her. Father had barred her from his solar when he received the news of Rook’s Rest from a Vale contingent of outriders, grandmother was with daddy as his advisor, Viserys was sent with Willem Darry as his page and soon to be squire as he oversaw the rebuilding of the Riverlands beside Lord Tully as a royal advisor.

 

Daddy said it would be a great experience for her uncle for when he will advise his Aegon as king in the future, learning about the suffering of others and the smallfolk. Daddy saw potential in Viserys as a reborn Viserys the Second of His name.  Rhaenys thought he resembled Viserys the First of His name in temperament and actions. Rhaenys knew it was grandmother’s idea to show Viserys that what grandfather did was wrong and to give him a greater role model than daddy, his older brother, in these strange and tumultuous times.

 

She was bored with no one to talk to at the moment. Maude would stitch in a corner beside Lady Stark, her brother’s aunt, Egg was walking and saying words and sentences, and would call her name, “Fhae! Play Fhae! Play!” He would scream at her. Little Robb was crawling and so was Jon, but they only said a few words. Jon was so quiet that she always forgot he was here when she was not bitterly staring at him. When he did speak, he would say mama, but he had no mom like her and Egg, used to. But he meant grandmother. Grandmother was always in here, always taking care of the bastard. She loved him; all could see.

 

Ser Barristan remarked to Ser Preston at Rhaenys’s fourth nameday that grandmother saw the young bastard as her fourth son. Rhaenys guessed grandmother would have to love him; daddy was planning something for the bastard’s upbringing with grandmother. He was locked in his solar for days, contemplating new political maneuvers she wasn’t privy to, but she does know that daddy gave Jon to grandmother to raise. Maude was talking about the news sweeping through the court.

 

“Lord Stark wasn’t too happy about being denied the right to foster and raise his nephew,” Maude said as she braided her hair.

 

“Why grandmommy,” she remembered asking.

 

Maude shrugged, “I assume to lessen the blow of ripping one son from her arms.” Maude kissed Rhaenys’s forehead. “I know you don’t like Jon, but he is your brother. Once this mess with Robert is sorted and the Dowager Queen gives birth they will travel to Dragonstone and live there till Summerhall is done.” Rhaenys pouted. “You should to get to know him. You never know when you will see him last.” Maude cried then, remembering the brother who died for her charge. Rhaenys hugged Maude then.

 

So here she was playing with the rattle toy Jon would look at with bright eyes mesmerized. She was supposed to be with the maester but here she was, playing with a bastard. As she began to get interested in Jon’s shining eyes and weak laughter, Maude stood suddenly as if remembering just now about Rhaenys’s lessons.

 

“Your highness,” she called out hurriedly. “We are very late for your lessons.” She put Rhaenys on her feet and straightened her dress. She was forced to say goodbye to Lady Stark, and over her shoulder saw Jon staring at her with those insufferable silver eyes of his. She didn’t look back again.

 

Maester Lyonce her new tutor, used to be in Lord Baliss’ employment, but he died at the Iron Gate alongside his brothers and heir. His two surviving sons were being separated, one to squire for the Blackfish and the other sent back to his isle. Maester Lyonce was in limbo till being officially placed in her grandmother’s household, but unofficially her daddy’s as he didn’t want to upset Pycelle in daddy’s increasingly subtle attempts to limit his power.

 

When they left the nursery, the three Kingsguard separated. Ser Gerold went with her, Ser Preston stayed outside the nursery, but Ser Oswell went inside. She wanted Oswell, because he was funny and was rude to all the right people, but Gerold had a sense of security and safety about him Rhaenys has missed for a year now. They headed towards the chambers Lyonce was given in the rooms below the grand maester’s on the ground floor in the rookery tower with the other court maesters.

 

The sun was setting and throwing a beautiful sight across the yard of the Red Keep. It reminded her of another sunset, a much crueler and cold sunset. The beautiful sunset she talked to the perfumed man named Varys. But this time there was people around. The Blackfish was leading some men in drills before they set off across the Narrow Sea after Robert with Ser Templeton. Some ladies and lords were watching, others were walking back and forth between the towers and keeps of the castle.

 

Once all three entered the rookery tower, it was silent beside a few guardsmen trotting past. Daddy had increased security for reasons unknown to her. _I want to be back in his solar,_ she complained. Maester Lyonce’s door was ajar. But Rhaenys never noticed, she entered as Gerold took his place at the door. “Sorry were late… maester?” Maude called out in the dark room.

 

Lyonce’s chambers were two times as wide as long. Long shelves holding countless scrolls and tomes met tables in the center of the room, with enough space to walk through, a typical junky maester, discarded mixing bowls and potions, and yellow sheets of paper were usually left on the tables. Leaving a small space in the back right corner for a tiny personal desk and a small lumpy bed.

 

As Rhaenys’s eyes adjusted she saw that several chairs were overturned and there was some sort of dripping sound coming from behind the maester’s tiny personal desk in the right corner. Maude put a hand on Rhaenys’ chest backing her away towards the door. Just as she recognized movement, two big man was rushing them through the gap, one was armed only in a dagger, but it was as long as Rhaenys it seemed. The other a warhammer gleaming brightly in the dying rays of the sun through the maester’s window.

 

Maude screamed just as the poniard wielding man slashed at her. Maude’s arms came up to block the attack as well as flesh could, ribbons of blood soared in the air. Rhaenys stood mesmerized as the door was pushed open behind her violently. Rhaenys realized too late she was in the perimeter of the door’s opening and was knocked off her feet. She slammed against a table full of discarded contents and fell backward. Her head hit the ground hard and blood filled her mouth.

 

She faintly heard sobbing and yelling as she tried to rise. But her right arm felt like a puddle. Unresponsive and numb she feared the worse, remembering her other wound. Her left worked fine and helped her roll over to only see the man with the poniard charging her.

 

His eyes were scary, red hair fell to his shoulders, and she knew the man. _Lord Penrose._ She scrambled away on shaky legs and one arm. As she backed away her left-hand touched a porcelain mixing bowl, full of a powdery substance. She grabbed and looked up to see Penrose beginning to strike her. She lifted the bottom side of the bowl and chucked it with full strength.

 

The open end slammed into his face and powder went everywhere. Covering his face and upper body, some fell like snow to tumble on to his boots. Too late Rhaenys realized Penrose was still following through with his strike. The thin steel dagger flashed toward her and Rhaenys closed her eyes, prepared for the blow.

 

When the blow never came, she opened her eyes to find Maude blocking her. The poniard pierced Maude’s hand. She was crying in pain, but so was Penrose, a broken bottle was poking out of his nether regions.

 

Ser Gerold had already injured the other man, when guards ran through the door. “Bring a maester!” Gerold shouted at them.

 

He came by her and examined her. “Your highness forgive me. I did not know you were behind the door.” He touched Rhaenys’s arm and then the numbness faded, and she screamed in pain. When she looked down, her arm didn’t look right. “Gods, get that maester here now! They all live here, just bring one!” Gerold shouted out the door.

 

Rhaenys watched chillingly as the other guards picked up the two men and carried them out. Then she remembered Maude. Maude was clutching her right arm and crying. Rhaenys saw she pulled the poniard out but near her elbow the skin was cut almost to the bone. Rhaenys felt bile rise as blood pooled out of Maude. She threw up all over Ser Gerold’s boots.

 

“It’s all right princess, let it all out. That’s right.” Rhaenys was crying as well, not just because she emptied out her stomach, because of everything. Mommy, the bastard, Bessie, daddy, and now Maude. Why was it always her? _Why me? Why do they always want to hurt me?_ What did she ever do to them?

 

“I should’ve looked back,” she cried.

* * *

 

 

The Black Queen

Retiring to her chambers earlier than usual because she was due to burst any minute now reminded her of when Aerys would confine her to a maternity enclosed-ward to prevent any unwelcome people and evil spirits tampering with his dragon heirs. More than likely those periods of confinement worsened her pregnancy, she never felt the sun or the warm breeze on her face. Her Jaehaerys died that way.

 

She always imagined her babies grown and tall. Shaena beside Rhaegar, Daeron burly and strong as robust a babe he was, little Aegon she imagined a younger Aelor when she looked at him, and of course Jaehaerys, he was to be her father reborn, but stronger and even wiser if that was possible. _Perhaps it could have been if Jaehaerys wouldn’t believe the prophecies of a mad witch._ She hated her father when he announced it, but she did her duty for the realm and the future of Westeros. But looking back now she can’t help but think it was a folly, the Targaryens were so proud and strong, now we are limited to two branches. And it looks like Aelor won’t be getting a grandson anytime soon.

 

Aeryk was a sweet boy of fourteen going on to fifteen in a few moonturns. He was the opposite of Aelor with his preferences, sandy-brown hair, and personality, but her brother loves him. She hoped Aelor would come soon, it’s been years since she saw him mostly because he has always had a hard time connecting mad Aerys with the big brother of his childhood. She did not have the heart to tell him that Aerys was never the role model of perfection he once thought. But big brothers usually have that effect on you, no matter what they do, they can only be perfect in your eyes. Till they go that one step to far. For her it was after Duskendale, the love she held for Aerys evaporated then. She empathized with what he went through but it never excused his action against her. The bite marks, the burns, the rape, all of it.

 

She was drifting to sleep as soon as someone pounded on her door. “Your grace!” He called through the door. “There’s been a council called!”

 

Rhaella sighed in agitation, this had to be the _sixth_ in two days. Rhaegar wanted to get everything regarding Robert done as soon as possible since he committed that atrocity at Rook’s Rest. Ser Vardis words still rang in her head. Robert had split his forces, half went west and met Royce in battle, all were killed or captured. When Royce figured the ruse, he sent his reserves at full speed east.

 

Her cousin’s son had snuck into the castle of Rook’s Rest, he killed Lady Staunton, her twelve-year-old daughter, her heir Ronald who was ten, and her babe was tossed in the port before Robert set the household to death and burned the castle. He then commandeered a ship after burning the other four docked there. Now he sails east to Essos.

 

Rhaegar was flabbergasted, Jon Arryn was horrified, Tarly was quiet, but his eyes were wide, and Cousin Lucerys was mumbling about how he spent a thousand dragons each on those ships to be a part of his new royal fleet.

 

The bane of any large retinue leaving was delays, and that was what had been keeping Ser Symond Templeton here at court. But no more, Rhaegar had taken an active hand in the planning of Symond’s corrected journey to Essos to search for Robert, which required more resources and men to serve the company, and letters to local leaders of why an armed retinue was docking in their ports. He reduced the number of knights, men-at-arms, and squires taking the journey as well, for a thousand men army showing up at a Free City’s gate searching for one man would be extremely in poor taste for diplomatic relations.

 

“Yes, I’m rising,” she called as she attempted to rise with her swollen belly. She realized that she needed help getting dressed. Even Daeron wasn’t as big as this babe proved to be. _Perchance it is a good sign of living,_ Rhaella thought. She called for her handmaidens who arrived minutes later and dressed her as fast as they could with her belly. In a chartreuse chiffon maternity dress, that was modest enough for men eyes, and thin enough for the heat of the King’s Landing in spring going on to summer to prevent her overheating with another person heating her up from the inside.

 

The Red Keep seemed to get bigger everyday her pregnancy progressed. The walk took forever. There were more guards running around more than usual, moving frantically. At the base of the Maidenvault they were carrying casks and chests out of a room and dumping them outside for a steward to conduct to the Master of Laws offices. This behavior while erratic was not surprising. Ever since Rhaegar received word of Rook’s Rest he has increased the guard tenfold and set Varys to find all traitors. She tried to think of better things than traitors.

 

Outside the small council chambers and near the Valyrian sphinxes that lined the entrance stood a man she hadn’t seen in a while. “Aelor,” she called to her brother. He smiled a toothy grin and embraced her.

 

He smelled of dirt and sweat but underneath was the smell of Aelor she always loved. “Sister,” he said reverently. “By the gods, you are so huge!” He laughed, and Rhaella remembered summer days at Summerhall before her family’s desire to do the impossible again. “I wish we could have seen each other in better circumstances.”

 

“I as well Aelor, but the war is over, and we only have to worry about Robert the Monster,” Rhaella said trying out the name some servant girl gave Robert after Rook’s Rest she heard at supper two days ago. She swiped some mud off his cheek.

 

His lanky arm shot up and held her wrist. His pale lilac eyes were solemn and hard. “Do you not know?” He held tightly to her wrist but in a calming manner. He breathed out. “Last night after you went to sleep. Rhaenys was attacked again.”

 

She gasped in shock and felt an anger pool. Her babe moved in an annoyed manner. “Attacked? By who?”

 

His lanky arms surrounded her waist and guided her into the council chamber, “Let’s let my nephew tell you. But I’ll warn you the suspects are in there, bloody and bruised.”

 

Indeed, they were bloody and bruised. Lord Penrose was hanging his head, one eye peeked out from a curtain of red hair. Lips busted from a couple cuts, and a gauze was wrapped around his crotch. Lord Morrigen's short black hair was knotted in red, and where his right hand should be was a stump and his left were a missing a few digits. She knew about them; they weren’t very subtle with their hate and were virtuous prisoners here at the Red Keep. But the third man, unharmed, but startled and chained was glaring at all with those pale blue eyes of his.

 

Jon Connington was fervently claiming his innocence to the gathered council. Lord Tywin was stone-faced and smug, Jon Arryn angry, Lucerys was annoyed, Pycelle hunched over, Tarly with his arms crossed, Varys was tittering, and Rhaegar was fuming.

 

“You?” She said out loud shocked that the man who loved her son in an unconventional way was involved in the plot to kill Rhaenys. Jon turned around on his knees to stare at her.

 

“Your grace! Please tell the council and the king that this is a mistake! A misunderstanding!” He looked desperate.

 

“What is going on here my lords?” She asked no one in particular. _Why was I not called earlier?_ Was her real question but that could wait. Her babe stirred uneasily and kicked an organ.

 

Tywin spoke up, “Lord Connington was the orchestrator behind the attack on Princess Rhaenys.”

 

“Preposterous! Why would I do such a thing?!”

 

“No need to deny it my lord, we have seen and read the correspondence between you three,” Varys giggled.

 

“No this is not true, Rhaegar…” Connington began.

 

“STOP!” Rhaella hasn’t heard her son raise his voice in such a long time it shocked even her. It shocked many others as well. “Stop. You were my friend for a decade, and this is how you repay me?” Her son held the letters in his hand and clutched them with an anger. “Over Storm’s End? I told you no because I intended to keep it in the Baratheons hands to rule the Stormlands easier. I was going to reward you with something else, now, now I’m glad I didn’t give a damn thing to a traitor!”

 

As Connington gasped in surprise, Lord Morrigen spoke. “The Stormlands will never be yours, you inbred fucker! Or your demon brats…” Aelor hit him in the back of the head with the pommel of his sword. Rhaella had an inkling why Morrigen’s head was already bloody.

 

“You stubborn bastard! You never learn, do you?” Aelor remarked with an anger in his usual calm voice. “Maybe you need to lose your manhood like Penrose to shut you up.”

 

Morrigen laughed. “I saw the end of the Targaryen dynasty in a dream. The crows were singing over all your bodies.” He laughed and his mouth was a red ruin. “A black dragon and lions and stags and wolves ate over the remains and thorns plucked up the scrapes. How I laughed!”

 

Aelor and Tarly drew their swords and looked ready to kill Morrigen here and there. “Put away your sword Aelor, you as well Lord Tarly. Let these men face their crimes the proper way. Beheading or hanging, whatever suits our king.” She eyed her son warily; his face was scrunched up in disgust and passionate rage. But his eyes were how to tell her son’s thoughts, and more than all melancholy was betrayal in there.

 

Lord Tarly as Master of Laws began his sentencing of the fools. “Lords Penrose, Morrigen, and Connington as the price of attempting to murder a member of the royal family, through the power invested in me as master of laws by King Rhaegar First of His Name, I sentence you to die on the morrow.”

 

Penrose began to sob in defeat, Morrigen smirked his red ruin and sprouted more obscene remarks about Targaryens. Jon Connington was on his knees, grey-faced and looked to be in shock. Eyes glazed over. As Aelor called in guards to transport the men to their cells for one last rest before execution, Rhaegar spoke. “No,” he ordered.

 

Tywin looked back at Rhaegar surprised, Rhaella caught an unsure look before it was clouded over in Tywin’s imperious mask. “Your grace?”

 

“No, I said.” He rose and walked to the lords, particularly Jon Connington. He looked down upon him. “It isn’t right.”

 

Connington fell at Rhaegar’s legs and clutched him. “My silver prince, please this is all a misunderstanding, I would never attack the princess.” Rhaegar shoved him off like a bug.

 

“No, I meant you dying. It doesn’t feel right.” Her son turned from his friend back to his high-backed chair. “Lord Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost, I sentence you to perpetual banishment from the lands under my royal guidance.”

 

Rhaella would never forget the face Connington made then. The breaking of a man who seemed to be loyal but not anymore. When the guards escorted the prisoners out of the small council room, Rhaegar dismissed all besides her and Aelor.

 

Once Pycelle had finally shuffled out, Aelor talked. “Do you truly believe Connington did this?” He pulled out a chair. “That he masterminded all of this.”

 

Rhaegar fumed, looking intently at a slip of paper. “I don't know what to believe. But Varys had proof, and even before this Varys reported Lord Connington being shunned by me and being a potential liability.”

 

“And you trust Varys?” She asked. She sat as well. _My legs ache as if I walked from Summerhall to the Red Keep nonstop._

 

“As far as I can throw him.” He sighed. “Numbers are bad,” he tossed Aelor the sheets of paper. “We are losing more money than we can collect, and most is going to former traitors not allies.”

 

“Are we in debt,” she tried peeking over Aelor’s arm.

 

“No, not yet,’ Aelor licked his finger and turned some pages. “No matter how much I loan you nephew you would still be in trouble. Maybe we should hold off on completing Summerhall.”

 

Her son shook his head. “I will not allow Aemon to be a beggar. He is a prince.”

 

“But perhaps so soon is a mistake. He is barely one.” Rhaella remarked, even as her heart pushed her to put more revenue to rebuild the castle.

 

“Taking a third of all of Morrigen and Penrose’s wealth was a good tactic to use,” Aelor was looking at some new numbers being added to the royal coffers.

 

“But?” Rhaegar provided.

 

“It’s not nearly enough. If you lessen the money spent on reconstruction, a new rebellion will be on our hands. Not an ideological one between a mad king and sane prince, but between families over money.”

 

“So, it is inevitable then,” Rhaegar sighed.

 

She felt she was missing something. “What is?”

 

Aelor looked at her as if she didn’t want to know. “The man with enough money that a dowry could fix all our financial problems.”

 

“You will marry again? To the lion’s daughter?” Rhaella shook her head. Lyanna was just on her way to Winterfell where a stonemason is carving an effigy in her memory for her cold, stone coffin. She still remembered Rhaegar’s and Lord Stark’s arguments over where she will be buried. “For the third time? Just to fix a financial situation that can be fixed with time?”

 

“My Hand has been steering me in this direction. To ‘bind the realm that has bleed,’ he says. And no not just this. Those papers are longtime estimates I had some maesters run.” He runs a hand through silver hair. “Money and resources are what will define the next generation’s greatest challenge.”

 

“What are you talking about Rhaegar. We can keep this peace. And if Aegon, Rhaenys, and Aemon are raised right then war won’t come.”

 

Aelor and Rhaegar looked at her then. Their eyes were eerily dark and knowledgeable. “There’s only one conflict that matters,” Aelor begin.

 

And Rhaegar finished, “the Long Night.”

* * *

 

 

The Blackfish

Brynden had never seen a view this beautiful from river barges as the one he sees now on one of the finest royal galleys, the _Stranger_. The waters of the narrow sea were cut by the prow of the ship with a constant spray of salt water coating the Valyrian sphinx with a woman’s body and hooded woman that served to decorate the prow.

 

Fishing was harder on a galley as they moved but the Blackfish never gave up once and one afternoon caught two fish and got exponentially better since. There were other things in the water beside fish as well. Sharks, dolphins, and other things, larger and daunting things. The adventure reminded him of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, except Hoster wasn’t here nagging in his head.

 

He was his own man away from his older brother’s influence and reputation. It was irksome sometimes, but pride would shine through the steel-plate of the pariah of House Tully for his older brother. He made House Tully the strongest house in the Seven Kingdoms. Alliances with the Starks and Arryns, who are allied with the Targaryens and Martells, and soon to be Lannisters through marriage. It would be a great contributor to the riverlands reconstruction and continued prosperity for years to come.  

 

A powerful alliance was formed to control the Seven Kingdoms for the betterment of it. _I hope that was the goal and not the greed of already opulent lords and ladies._ We will see very soon, Brynden believes. No one’s true intentions are kept secret for long. Rhaegar’s reign was shaping to be a long and fruitful one. He handled the Stormlands lords’ insurrection with the strength and just of Jaehaerys I.

 

Tragedy won’t last long, and the war would soon be out of people’s minds and they focus on their families and fields. But for Brynden and a hundred knights and squires, their war was not over just yet. One more enemy had eluded them and now they were to find him and capture him alive if possible, if not, Brynden touched his sword that hung on his waist, he would bring a gift for his king.

 

He liked Robert when he first met him years ago. Liked his boisterousness and robustness and uproar of an energy, not the type of man he favored like Ser Barristan, but something that unknowingly attracted Brynden to him. Then he met him again at Harrenhal before marching on to Rosby, he was a husk of a man. Hollow in the eyes, a man who sacrificed and fought for a fool’s cause and he was the fool. Brynden understood, that Lyanna Stark was beautiful, just Brynden preferred fish to boar, as she preferred dragons to stags.

 

Brynden sighed as the wind whipped his red hair about his face, and caressed his stubborn, weathered face. This was the life for a Blackfish, to be free from the school of the other fish, and be the fish it wanted to be, silver or black. No matter the consequences, large or small.

* * *

 

 

The Quiet Wolf

He stared at his face for a long time, unsure rising. _What if he isn’t safe and loved here or at Dragonstone?_ He caressed the soft baby face of his nephew with his free hand, as the other held Robb close. Everyday Jon looked more and more like Lyanna, when he pushed the silver hair out the way. Even sleeping, he was innocent and pure. The south could and will ruin that.

 

But the south will only have him for seven years then Jon will come north to be fostered at Winterfell, like a true Stark. Robb and Jon will be the closest friends and there will be snowball fights daily like Ned and his siblings.

 

Ned kissed his forehead like a brand for the boy to remember him. But Ned’s place wasn’t here. It was Winterfell, his home. He needed to rebuild his own lands like the south was doing, deal with an increase in wilding activity, and Benjen. Baby Ben was no longer a baby and wanted to be a part of something. Ned couldn’t deny him that but to join the Night’s Watch shouldn’t be it.

 

Ned tousled his nephew’s hair one last time for the next seven years and met his wife outside the royal nursery with a guest.

 

The princess Rhaenys was standing there solemn with a cast on her arm. “You’re not taking Jon?”

 

“No, your highness. He’s going with your grandmother to Dragonstone” Confused that she didn’t know this.

 

“I know,” she bit her lip. “Just it’s not… it’s not safe here. No one is safe here.”

 

“Princess,” he tried but she walked away with three white shadows with her. He looked at Cat and at the two Kingsguard guarding the royal nursery.

 

“Are you ready, my lord,” Cat had a demure way of speaking that hid the strength beneath, it made Ned feel conflicted.

 

“If I don’t leave now, we may never leave.” They walked down the yard where their caravan awaited them.

 

“It’s alright, we will see the boy again.”

 

“We will, and I may never let him go again.”

* * *

 

The Kingslayer

Jaime tried but he couldn’t shake his anger. The wedding was perfect. Cersei was gowned in pure gold, with a veil of crimson that trailed behind her for several paces that had to be held up by her ladies-in-waiting. She looked like the Maiden reborn. _Though she wasn’t a maid when I was done with her_. His grip upon his sword given to him by Rhaegar for his service was hard and vice like. When he met his father’s eyes, those disappointed eyes, he released his grip and his fingers hurt.

 

The feast was immaculate, though he didn’t partake. He was on duty for this night. Solemn, quiet, and fearsome, those were the words Ser Gerold told him once. “You must be solemn, quiet, and fearsome. Those who look upon you should see a statue of white they should fear like the Valyrians did of Balerion’s statue.”

 

Jaime always felt that a Targaryen must have been truly mad to name a dragon he controlled after a god Valyrians feared. Or he was trying to instill that fear in others. Every time Cersei looked behind the dais Jaime forced a smile at her.

 

She was getting what she wanted, or was she getting what she has been groomed for all her life by father and mother? Jaime hated it; he was groomed to be the Lord of Casterly Rock and look at that dream. All for naught, he was a Kingsguard, and Casterly Rock would go to Tyrion or his uncle Kevan. _Why couldn’t Cersei reject her upbringing?_

 

Most of the throne room inhabitants were happy, except for a few, namely the bridegroom, the king, and Princess Rhaenys was solemn as well, Rhaella was absent for she had gone into labor right after the ceremony. _How Cersei’s face contorted in rage at that_. Prince Aelor was quiet as well, he talked to Jaime’s father but was mostly watching his son. _Ser_ Aeryk Targaryen was walking around like a king tonight. He had his sandy-brown hair slicked back and his purple eyes were glazed by drink and mirth. His brother Maegon and sister Maegelle were being watched by their mother Jaina at the lower place of honor like a leopard.

 

Overall the wedding was a fine day, but then Uncle Gerry called for the bedding and soon the hall erupted into chaos. In the mass of lords running to grab his sweet sister Jaime swooped in first. He barely noticed his father’s narrowed eyes and Rhaegar’s melancholic eyes watching him like a dragon, as if he was meat or friend. As he carried Cersei in his arms lords and knights tore off clothing, but Jaime and Cersei were looking at each other. A thousand words passed unsaid from Jaime’s lips, almost all of them were ‘I love you.’ She ignored them all.

 

He dropped her graciously in the king’s room and exited quickly. He took the long way around back to the throne room. Half way there he stopped and stared at the ceiling with its carved white marble dragons in a perpetual fight. Just like his vows, there was too many damn vows, and all of them prevented him from loving Cersei in the open as she should be.

* * *

 

 

The Exiled Lord

There was a surety of an answer at the bottom of this bottle, but when he got to the end it was gone. And with it his sanity and control. This was his third bottle, of the evening. He had been drinking like a drunkard for days, almost a month.

 

He dug in his pockets for a coin and found one last silver, his last coin. Should he buy a room or another bottle of the Tyroshi piss juice that burned everywhere, in all the right places. His throat, head, and stomach. Maybe this bottle could have the answer he searched for. _Or not_. As Jon put the coin on the table he sat at and waited for the green-haired beauty who served here, Jon caught her attention at first but then he remembered his Silver Prince, and deliberately puked on her shoes.

 

Ever since, she only has a scowl for him. She took his last good coin and returned with a brown bottle filled with the alcohol that would hopefully give him an answer. As he popped the cork, two men sat down across from him. One was older than him by at least a decade, jug-eared, a big nose, and a crooked jaw. He had the forbearance of an experienced soldier. His eyes were dark, dark and endless but not unkind. The other man was the opposite of the first, handsome with brown hair, a nose broken more than thrice, but it gave him an added effect as a rugged handsome man with his chiseled jaw covered in dark stubble.

 

He had seen these two before of course. In Tyrosh one knew who to watch for and avoid. _Sellswords_. Always recruiting on the main thoroughfare in Tyrosh Jon crossed daily to get to his favorite cavern. _I probably look like an easy recruit_. Jon has also noticed them in this cavern, subtly watching him.

 

“Yes,” he asked already annoyed.

 

“You find what you’re looking for yet?” The jug-eared man said in a gruff voice, as he bit into some roasted quail they served at the Green Quail. They studied each other. Jon’s dagger felt heavy on his hip.

 

“I’m trying but you are currently interrupting,” Jon remarked as he swallowed two gulps of the horrible liquor.

 

They laughed. “What brings you to colorful Tyrosh,” the rugged man said, and Jon never realized they were talking in the common tongue not Valyrian.

 

“To find some hair dye, growing tired of red,” he chuckled.

 

“A pity,” the jug-eared said, “And here we thought you spent your last coin just now.”

 

“I’m an experienced thief I’ll figure it out.”

 

“The penalty for stealing hair dye in Tyrosh is to lose a head,” jug-eared replied solemnly. Jon stared him down from the rim of his bottle. _I feel uneasy_ , he thought.

 

Jon sighed and put down his bottle and bit. “Fine, what do two sellswords want with a Westerosi exile?”

 

Jug-eared smiled. His mouth was full of yellow teeth, but it was a great smile. “A certain spider said to look for a griffin, and I hope we found him.” Jon stared at them with a critical eye. “How would you like to be required again?”

 

“For what,” Jon’s heart was in his throat, his hands were clutching his bottle.

 

“For what,” the rugged one remarked. “In Essos, there’s one place Westerosi exiles go the most.” He snatched Jon’s drink and poured it on the roughhewn stone floor. “Beneath the gold, the bitter steel.” He set the bottle on the table and leaned forward and whispered, “ _Blood_ _and Fire_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update. A myriad of factors gave me writer's block. First the ending of GOT just made me pissed, Second the prologue was supposed to be like two chapters and it turned into GRRM's Meereenese Knot, it is nowhere as complex as the Meereenese Knot but I had trouble ending it in a satisfying way for myself. I could've done more chapters to make it seem more concrete but honestly this was hard to write. 
> 
> I know many of you were against Rhaegar marrying Cersei, but this was always the endpoint of the prologue along with the Black Dragon surprise. I always thought the Blackfyre's words were the Targaryen's reversed. 
> 
> Even though Rhaegar and Cersei's children won't be Rhaegar's, do you all still want Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen to have canon names or Targaryen names?


	7. Appendix: Same World, New Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised a reader an appendix once the prologue was over.

House Targaryen

RHAEGAR TARGARYEN, the First of His Name, the eldest son of King Aerys II Targaryen and Queen Rhaella of House Targaryen

\- his first wife, { **Princess Elia of Dorne** }, of House Martell. Killed by Ser Ronnal and companions.

  * **Princess Rhaenys,** a maid of eighteen years'


  * **Prince Aegon the Heir,** the Brilliant, the heir to the Iron Throne, seventeen years of age



          - **Ser Loras Tyrell** , thirdborn son of Lord Tyrell, his sworn guard,

          -  **Ser Renly Baratheon** , brother to Lord Stannis, his close friend,

\- his second wife, { **Lyanna Stark** }, died in Dorne at the tower of joy,

  * **Aemon Targaryen,** his estranged son, called Jon by northerners and Aemon by southerners, raised by Ned Stark and Queen Rhaella, five and ten,



          -  **Ser Gunter** **Tallhart** , Jon's sworn shield,

\- his third wife,  **Cersei Lannister** , 

  * **Prince Joffrey Targaryen** , a boy of thirteen,



          -  **Sandor Clegane** , his sworn shield, 

  * **Princess Myrcella** , a girl of nine,


  * **Prince Tommen** , a boy of seven,



\- his mother,  **Rhaella Targaryen** , widow of Mad King Aerys, 

  * **Prince Viserys** , acting castellan of Dragonstone for Aegon,


  * **Princess Daenerys** , residing at Summerhall with her mother, 



\- his uncle,  **Aelor Targaryen** , Lord of Sable Lake, and Rhaegar's ally, 

  * his wife,  **Jaina Santagar,** the Lady of Sable Lake,


  * **Aeryk Targaryen** , his eldest son, refuses to marry, Viserys's close companion,



         -  **Aelora Targaryen** , his legitimised bastard by a whore named Jeyne Storm, 

  * **Maegon Targaryen** , master-at-arms at Sable Lake, called the **Salamander** , four and twenty years old,



         -  **Jeyne Heddle** , his mistress, 

  * **Maegelle Targaryen** , his daughter, eight and ten years old, 


  * **Maelor Targaryen** , his youngest son, nine,



\- his distant relative,  **Maester Aemon** ( **Targaryen** ), the maester at Castle Black,

 

Rhaegar's Court

\- his Kingsguard, 

  * **Ser Barristan Selmy** , the Bold,


  * **Ser Arthur Dayne** , the Sword of the Morning,


  * **Ser Jaime Lannister** , the Kingslayer,


  * **Ser Arys Oakheart** , the youngest member, 


  * **Ser Oswell Whent** , dark and strong,


  * **Ser Mandon Moore** , cold and lifeless, 


  * **Ser Preston Greenfield** , 



 

\- his small council,

  * **Lord Jon Arryn** , the Hand of the King,


  * **Lord Monford Velaryon** , the master of ships,


  * **Lord Stannis Baratheon** , the master of laws,


  * **Lord Aelor Targaryen** , the master of coin, 


  * **Lord Varys** , a eunuch, called the **Spider** , the master of whispers,


  * **Grand Maester Pycelle** , 



 

\- his court and retainers, 

  * **Bevicard** , head steward of the Red Keep,



         - **Heristan,** a lower steward,

  * **Ser Aron Santagar** , master-at-arms, 


  * **Bethany Fair-Fingers** , the royal harper, a woman singer, 


  * **Ser Ilyn Payne** , the King's Justice, 


  * **Moon Boy** , a jester and a fool, 


  * **Septon Charlos** , court septon, a member of the Most Devout, abhors Septon Meribald,


  * **Septon Elyon** ( **Velaryon** ), a smart and notable septon, cousin of Lord Monford, court septon,


  * **Septa Asherah** ( **Velaryon** ), a beautiful and pious lady of high-birth, sister to Elyon and cousin to Monford, in Princess Rhaenys's household, 


  * **Ser Howald Whent** , heir to Harrenhal, companion to Prince Aemon,


  * **Nessaria Venigar** , of Volantis, a proposed maiden to Prince Viserys, in Princess Rhaenys's household, part of Rhaegar's plan to enter an alliance with several Free Cities, 



          - **Arbo Venigar,** Nessaria's half-older brother, sent to negotiate the betrothal between Viserys and Nessaria, 

  * **Lady Johanna Lantell** , **Lady Jocelyn Swift** , **Dorcas** , and **Senelle,** Queen Cersei's household, 


  * **Lady Celia Blount** , lady-in-witing for Queen Cersei,



          - **Ser Boros Blount** , her cousin, aspires to be a Kingsguard,

  * **Ser Ollerus Endymion** , the only son and heir to Lord Endymion, companion to Prince Joffrey,


  * **Vhaenya Endymion** , Princess Myrcella's lady-in-waiting,


  * **Lord Petyr Baelish** , A Keeper of the Keys, an ambitious man with high goals, 


  * **Ser Marston Vollfield** , Aelor's retainer, ally, and companion,


  * **Ser Priam of Sable Lake** , Aelor's companion, captain of his household guard,


  * **Ser Balon Swann,** a tourney knight, at court with a retinue of knights and sworn swords,


  * **Septon Meribald,** a travelling septon, a friend and ally of Rhaegar, 


  * **Ser Alliser Thorne** , captain of the Red Keep's guard, black cloaks,



          - **Ser Mallory Stallworth, Ser Erstin Waters, Ser Tytos Frey, Arvis, Tylen, Barthello, Arylon, Cujo, Nono, Ser Drace, Ser Thancred, and Ser Gordin Stone** , guards, black cloaks,

  * **Vylarr** , captain of the Red Cloaks, 



          - **Ser Hugor of Oxcross** , **Godwyn** , **Jyck** , **Lester** , **Yougin** , **Chesed** , **Nappy** **Nadd** , **Loffrey** , **Sawjack** , **Dake** , **Shacken** , **Rys** , **Rosh** , **Stafuv** , **Garryg** , **Hori** **the** **Caveman** , **Dolf** , and **Kent** , red cloaks, Lannister Household guards, 

 

House Arryn

 

 **Lord Jon Arryn** , Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, Hand of the King,

\- his second wife, { **Rowena Arryn** }, lost her mind and fell from the Eyrie,

  * **Sharra Arryn** , his first child, married Ser Denys Arryn, twenty-five years of age,



\- his third wife, **Lysa** , of House Tully,

  * **Robert Arryn** , called Robin, a boy of eight, weak and sickly,



\- his brother, { **Ronnel Arryn** }, married Lady Belmore,

  * { **Ser Elbert Arryn** }, died in the black cells from torture,



\- his distant cousin, **Ser Denys Arryn** , married Sharra Arryn, thirty-two years of age,

\- his distant nephew, **Harrold Hardyng** , called the Heir,

\- their retainers and household, 

  * **Maester Colemon** , counsellor, healer, and tutor,


  * **Ser Vardis Egen** , captain of the guard, 


  * **Ser Brynden Tully** , called the Blackfish, Knight of the Gate and uncle to Lady Lysa, 


  * **Mord** , a brutal gaoler,



 

House Stark

 

 **Eddard Stark** , Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, 

\- his wife, **Catelyn Tully** , of Riverrun, 

  * **Robb** , the heir to Winterfell, fifteen years of age, 


  * **Sansa** , the elder daughter, a girl of twelve, 


  * **Arya** , the younger daughter, a girl of ten, 


  * **Brandon** , called Bran, a boy of eight,


  * **Rickon** , a boy of four, 



\- his siblings, 

  * { **Brandon** }, his elder brother, murdered by the command of Aerys II Targaryen,


  * { **Lyanna** }, his younger sister, died in the Mountains of Dorne, by childbed fever,


  * **Benjen** , his younger brother, a man of the Night's Watch,



\- his household, 

  * **Maester Luwin** , counselor, healer, and tutor,


  * **Vayon Poole** , steward of Winterfell, 



         - **Jeyne Poole** , his daughter, Sansa's close friend, 

  * **Jory Cassel** , captain of the guard, 



         - **Desmond** , **Hallis** **Mollen** , **Jacks** , **Porther** , **Tomard** , **Quent** , **Alyn** , **Cayn** , **Wyl** , **Heward** , **Varly** , guards, 

  * **Ser** **Rodrik** **Cassel** , master-at-arms, Jory's uncle, 



         - **Beth** **Cassel** , his young daughter, 

  * **Septa** **Mordane** , tutor to Lord Eddard's daughters, 


  * **Hullen** , master of horse, 



 

House Greyjoy

 

 **Balon Greyjoy** , Lord of the Iron Islands, Son of the Sea Wind, Lord Reaper of Pyke, 

\- his wife, **Alannys** , of House Harlaw, 

\- their children, 

  * **Rodrik** , their eldest son, captain of the  _Grief_ , heir to Pyke


  * **Maron** , their second son, captain of the  _Iron Kiss_ ,


  * **Asha** , their daughter, captain of the  _Black Wind_ ,



         -her crew, **Cromm** , **Doopeye** **Dale** , **Grimtongue** , **Hagen** **the** **Horn** , **Quella** , **Six** - **Toed** **Harl** , **Eerl** **Harlaw** , **Fingers** , **Lorren** **Longaxe** , **Qarl** **the Maid** , **Roggon Rustbeard** , **Rolfe the Dwarf** , and **Rook**

  * Theon, their youngest son, captain of the  _Sea Bitch_ ,



\- his brothers, 

  * **Euron** , called Crow's Eye, captain of the  _Silence_ , an outlaw, pirate, and raider,


  * **Victarion** , Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, Master of the  _Iron Victory_ ,


  * **Aeron** , called Damphair, a priest of the Drowned God.



 

House Baratheon

 

 **Lord Stannis Baratheon** , Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, serves as Master of Laws on the king’s small council,

\- his wife, **Delena** , of House Florent

  * **Orys Baratheon** , a boy of eleven, 
  * **Shireen Baratheon** , a girl of ten, 



\- his brother, **Ser Renly** , a knight sworn to Stannis, a frequent court member,

\- his brother, **Robert Baratheon** , in exile, joined the Golden Company, wants revenge and what is his even if he has to put himself or this Daemon Blackfyre on the throne,

  * their cousin, **Ser Ronnal Baratheon** , in-exile with Robert,



\- his household,

  * **Ser Davos Seaworth** , the Onion Knight,captain of the  _Black Betha_ ,


  * **Ser Richard Horpe** , the Knight of Moths, 



 

House Lannister

 **Tywin** **Lannister** , Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport,

  * his wife, { **Lady Joanna** }, a cousin, died in childbed,
  * their children: 
    * **Ser Jaime** , called the Kingslayer, heir to Casterly Rock, a twin to Cersei,
    * **Queen Cersei** , wife of King Rhaegar, a twin to Jaime, 
      * **Prince Joffrey,**
      * **Princess Myrcella,**
      * **Prince Tommen,**
    * **Tyrion** , called the Imp, called the HALFMAN, a dwarf,
  * his siblings: 
    * **Ser Kevan** , his eldest brother, his wife, **Dorna** of House Swyft, 
      * their eldest son, **Lancel** , squire to Tygett,
      * their twin sons, **Willem** and **Martyn** ,
      * their infant daughter, Janei,
    * **Genna** , his sister, wed to Ser Emmon Frey, 
      * their son, **Ser Cleos Frey** ,
      * their son, **Lyonel Frey** ,
      * their son, **Tion Frey** , a squire,
      * their son, **Walder Frey** , called RED WALDER, a squire at Casterly Rock,
    * **Ser Tygett** , his second brother, 
      * his widow, **Darlessa** , of House Marbrand,
      * their son, **Tyrek** , squire to Tygett,
      * their son, **Norwin** , squire to Tygett
    * { **Gerion** }, his youngest brother, lost at sea, 
      * his bastard daughter, **Joy** , a girl of ten,
    * his cousin, **Ser Stafford Lannister** , brother to the late Lady Joanna, 
      * his daughters, **Cerenna** and **Myrielle** ,
      * his son, **Ser Daven Lannister** ,
    * his cousins: 
      * **Ser Damion Lannister** , Lady Shiera Crakehall, 
        * his son, **Ser Lucion** ,
        * his daughter, **Lanna** , Lord Antario Jast,
      * **Margot** , Lord Titus Peake,
      * **Septon Libra** , a septon at the sept in Lannisport,
    * his household, 
      * his counselor, **Mester Creylen** ,
      * **Rolf Haywood** , Tywin’s cupbearer, half-Ironborn,
      * **Woodsinger Claran** , Genna’s loyal singer, he sings the Rains of Castamere very well
      * **Lady Elizard Endymion** , Lady and regent of Lordspire for her sick husband, 



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still need a beta if anyone wants to be apart of this journey!
> 
> Why is trying to do an appendix in AO3 so hard lol. Might add the Lannisters later on but this was hard for me.


	8. The Calm Before the Storm: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Act II: The Calm Before the Storm. The Stepstones are aflame in conflict, the conflict has changed the dynamics of the tidy balance struggle pirates, Tyrosh, Lys, and Dorne have over the area. From this unrest many flee, one right into the lands of the Targaryens.

* * *

 

 

The Bastard Prince

Aemon loved the sea. The smell of the salt that permeated everywhere on a ship. The cold spray of salt water as a ship sliced through waves. The boundless horizons of the sea. It made Aemon feel small, but also free. Free from the snake pit that was court and the family the old gods deemed to give him. Some of Aemon’s earliest memories were sailing between Dragonstone and King’s Landing, then the last sail to Summerhall. Afterward Aemon mostly took up sailing for pleasure with a few friends when he lived in King’s Landing. Though this sail was anything but pleasure.

 

Aemon ran a hand through his wet silver hair as he stood at the prow watching with the captain’s Myrish lenses. They have been evading the pirates patrol for days, but they knew the location of their lair from Elanzo Pahrenohr, the son of the trader-merchant Noryllo, who was a captive for days on Drak’s tiny island in the Narrow Sea. And they were closing in on Drak’s lair. They were three royal ships created not long after the end of Rhaegar’s Rebellion, _Hullbreaker_ , _Firestarter_ , and _Black Betha_. Big warships, three hundred oars each, and _Firestarter_ , had a deck above the oars covered in scorpions and catapults and a hold loaded with oil. Not only that they were joined by three merchant ships, the _Swift Lord_ and  _Planter_ were out from Duskendale, but the third was a swan ship straight from the Summer Islands, the _Cinnamon Wind_.

 

Six days ago, the _Cinnamon Wind_ came rushing into port at King’s Landing with the  _Lady Ushanora_ dragging behind it. The tale they brought was to be told before the king. Drak the Fang, a prolific pirate and sellsail driven north by the changes in the Stepstones set up camp on a small islet just thirty leagues southeast of Dragonstone. It was the ultimate disrespect to not only the king but to Aegon the Brilliant, _though he wasn’t anything brilliant to Aemon_ , who was supposed to be Prince of Dragonstone, but his whole household was situated in King’s Landing. His complaint was that it was too drab and grey for a man as bright as him.

 

Noryllo Pahrenohr knelt, bowed, and spoke before the king, his business was based in Braavos and King’s Landing, “Your grace, these uncouth, barbaric men attacked and attempted to kidnapped my son Elanzo, thee only heir to my trading company,” he cried. Aemon watched from the gallery with Maegon and Howald, and laughed when even Ser Gunter remarked on his poor mummer skills. “They have been disrupting trade to King’s Landing, even attacked our good friends from the Summer Islands! I implore you my king, to deal with these pirates!”

 

“My goodman, I assure you, these pirates have no place near my lands,” King Rhaegar I proclaimed to the court. “I will see them torn out root and stem.”

 

Grand Maester Pycelle came forward with a shuffle. “And who will lead the royal fleet to deal with these foul _pirates_ ,” he sounded winded.

 

“Ser Davos Seaworth is worthy enough for such a task, I do believe,” the king waved away the question. As the king began to call for the Onion Knight Cersei intervened.

 

“Perhaps,” she began. “But a person of royal lineage should go out and defeat these pirates, it will show the power of House Targaryen.” Aemon didn’t like where she was going with this line of thought.   _And I know exactly who she’s talking about_. Before Cersei could call him, he descended the back stairs from the gallery to the ground floor.

 

As he stood before the iron monstrosity called the Iron Throne and beside the kneeling Noryllo he asked to lead the royal fleet to defeat these pirates. The king looked conflicted and the queen was smiling. Sitting at the council table he heard Rhaenys mock, “What is he going to do brood the insolent pirates to death.”

 

A few members of court laughed, while others watched the king. “No,” was all the king said and told Heristan, a steward to retrieve Ser Davos for him.

 

Cersei’s smile died. “Your grace, _Prince_ Aemon is an adequate enough fighter for this challenge.”

 

“I agree as well,” Lord Arryn said reluctantly, as if the idea of siding with Cersei was tantamount to cutting off his arm. “A royal presence would be ideal, for too long we have served out orders to others, the realm needs to see a prince do his duty.” King Rhaegar glanced at Aegon, who was laughing with Renly and several others. “And Prince Aemon would be the best choice for a royal presence.”

 

Aemon’s cousin Maegon followed him down from the gallery. “Don’t worry Rhaegar, I’ll keep an eye on baby Jon for you.”

 

Rhaegar had no choice but to agree. And so, a day later Aemon departed without even a goodbye from his father, the king. That burned more than only having Myrcella and Tommen say farewell to him.

 

A day ago, they passed beneath the Dragonmont on the way to Drak’s islet lair. Now they were less than ten leagues from the islet according to Captain Quhuru Mo, a half days sail. Aemon ordered anchors to be dropped here, it would be ill advised to enter battle without strategy, even against pirates.

 

The captains and the prince met on the deck of the _Hullbreaker_. The three royal fleet captains, Ser Philbert Wendwater, Ser Morland Celtigar, and Ser Davos Seaworth, the cogs captains, and captain Quhuru Mo. And as always Aemon was accompanied and shadowed by Ser Gunter Tallhart, whose experience would be needed.

 

The good knight has been by the prince’s side since he was eight, ordered by the king to protect his second son as well as any Kingsguard. He was a tall man, about the same height as Aemon. His grey-black hair was always combed back to the center of his neck and his grey eyes were kind and strong. He was like the grandfather Aemon never got, on both sides of his family.

 

When they arrived Philbert and Morland were arguing, usually they waited till he arrived, not today. Aemon sighed as he settled in between Ser Davos and Quhuru Mo. “Update,” he asked.

 

Morland turned to him, “Philbert wants to attack without any prior reconnaissance.” Quhuru Mo just stared Morland down with unreadable dark eyes at the insult his daughter Kojja translated for him.

 

“Yes, we know your stance Morland, but they fought them off before,” Philbert argued.

 

“He saved some Free City penny chaser’s son from pirates _two_ leagues from the islet, not the actual place,” Morland retorted.

 

“They saw enough Morland! By the seven just listen – “

 

Aemon had had enough; he stomped his foot on the deck. “My lords, this should not even be an issue.” When they all looked at him, Aemon turned a sharp eye on them all. “Pirates plague our Bay, and soon our coasts. What happens when they grow bold enough to raid villages? We can’t have pirates on both sides of our kingdom.”

 

Morland and Philbert glared each other down for several seconds. Captain Quhuru Mo began speaking in the tongue of the Summer Islands. Kojja translated her father’s words to the common tongue. “The islet is a common stopping point in the Narrow Sea,” Kojja began. Quhuru added more. “The islet is crescent shaped. A large sea cave serves as the center of the island, Drak’s ships are probably anchored there.”

 

Aemon nodded at them. “Now that is out of the way, you are all veterans of several battles on water, what would you do?”

 

Morland and Philbert vied to speak first. However Davos was the last of the royal fleet captains to speak and his plan was the one they went with. They had a disadvantage of not knowing the enemy’s numbers, that’s where the _Planter_ comes in. The _Planter_ was to near the islet, make itself a good target and let the pirates follow her to fleet then they would strike.

 

Once the captains understood the plan Aemon disbanded the meeting and returned to his quarters beneath the deck. “Take the night off Gunter, I will need you sharp tomorrow.”

 

Gunter cracked his neck, “I was just waiting on the word, kid.” He waved good night and walked down the narrow hall to his bunk. As Aemon settled in his cot, nerves hit him. Training with Ser Rodrik Cassel and Ser Aron Santagar had drilled into the bastard prince the techniques to prevent being nervous in battle. But now that it was here, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He wanted to be needed and feel important, he wanted it so bad he could taste it. _It was cold and brittle, like blood_. If he was needed maybe it would stop the mocking of Aegon and Joffrey that a bastard like him was unimportant. This line of thinking brought on unadulterated thoughts of his family.

 

Aegon was always derisive in private but in public he was the perfect prince, Rhaenys was… well she was Rhaenys, the only woman allowed in small council meetings, and keen but vindictive. Joffrey was a little rotten spoiled brat, Myrcella was a sweet girl with none of Cersei’s madness, and Tommen was small and plump boy who loved cats. Rhaegar was distant and annoying on his best of days, and Cersei was the mad queen in his mind. Thoughts of his irritating family plagued him till sleep came upon him.

 

Maegon woke him up with a heavy hand. Aemon eyed him blearily. “Up! Up! Pirates are coming!” His eyes widened and Aemon jumped up in a panic. Frantically searching for his sword belt and boots. “Sleeping in is great but when pirates are approaching you must rise at some point little coz!”

 

“Why wasn’t I woken,” he complained as he buckled his sword belt to his waist. Searching for his tunic as an afterthought. When he heard Maegon laughing, Aemon scowled at him. “Great…” he muttered.

 

“You should have seen your face,” Maegon hollered. His pale blue eyes full of mirth and his smile was contagious.

 

“What time is it truly?” 

 

“Time to be awake little coz!” He tossed Aemon his plum tunic left on the table by the wall of the small cabin.

 

“How does Jeyne deal with you,” Aemon muttered darkly as he washed his face.

 

Maegon sat down at table and crossed his legs and beamed at Aemon. “As well as any woman blessed enough to bed a Salamander, with glee!” This was Maegon, his great-uncles second son, eleven years older than Aemon but he was already taller than him. Maegon looked just like Aeryk except he was a bit taller and had a silver gold-streak in his hair that mirrored Aemon’s brown-streak perfectly. He serves as master-at-arms at Sable Lake, but that title is as empty as his japes sometimes. Technically he could be uncle Aelor’s heir, since Aeryk decides to ignore his rights to galivant around with Viserys and ignore his duties.

 

Though Maegon does as well, he refuses to marry same as Aeryk, with no valid reason as to why, perhaps following his brother’s footsteps. While Aeryk doesn’t have a mistress or secret lover, _he only loves himself ever since Viserys sunk his claws into him_ , Maegon has a mistress: Jeyne Heddle. A very lowborn noble woman whose family owns an inn at the crossroads Aemon had been dragged to numerous times with Maegon. But even then, he refused to marry, even when at wit’s end Aelor gave his blessing for him to marry Jeyne. Maegon’s only response was, “I am not made for the married life and it’s not made for me.” Now he advocates for his niece Aelora to be heir to Sable Lake.

 

Aemon tried to ignore Maegon’s words as they walked to the mess hall on _Hullbreaker_ , but Aemon laughed when holding it in got too hard. The mess hall was full of hungry sailors and warriors filing their bellies before battle. One table held Aemon’s allies and companions. Ser Gunter was sitting down criticizing Corliss Carrick for eating knowing he can’t hold in his food when blood flows. And Howald Whent was drinking ale like it was water.

 

These were Aemon’s only friends and allies. Gunter has been around for nine years now, Cory as they all called Corliss has been around as long as Gunter’s squire alongside Aemon. Howald was heir to Harrenhal and Oswell’s relative and squired for him for a while, that’s how Aemon and Howald met, and Maegon was a blood-sucking leech of Aemon’s patience, but he was blood and loyal when it mattered.

 

“JON!” Howald called over the din of the mess hall. “Did Maegon get you, aye or nay?”

 

“I wouldn’t say he got me. Annoyed me I’ll say,” Jon took a loaf of black bread and cratered it for sailor stew.

 

“I’ll take that for a yes,” Howald grinned widely. He gulped his ale and stared at the stew poured into Jon’s trencher. “Don’t know how a prince can willingly eat that stuff.”

 

“It’s not that bad Howald,” Aemon says. "Here have some." Aemon teasingly pushed his trencher in Howald's face.

 

“It tastes like week old meat,” Howald sniffed and turned. Sometimes Aemon forgets how spoiled the only heir of Harrenhal is, almost like Joffrey, but he isn’t a prick.

 

“A good warrior eats what’s given to keep their strength up,” Gunter lectures.

 

“I would eat fast,” Maegon stands and secures his sword belt. Aemon looks up at him. “Hear that? That sounds like the _Planter_ is returning from harvest.”

 

Maegon always had good ears, Aemon hears it a second later and gulps down his stew, as he follows a grey-faced Corliss. “Any hope for the _Planter_ bringing food and not pirates?” Corliss darkly remarks. Aemon shakes his head and assures him that the fighting will be quick. But it sounded like self-reassurance.

 

Above deck the sight of Drak’s islet came into view and the ringing of the _Planter_ ’s bells were louder. The _Planter_ was followed by two galleys and a longship with three cogs trailing behind leaving the sea cave. He joined Philbert at the aftcastle. Philbert was watching the man at the helm. “Waiting on your word, my prince.” He turned to Aemon. “Drak the Fang hasn’t spotted us yet.”

 

Ahead he can see the _Planter_ dashing to where they awaited. There was no time to wait, pirates will kill the crew of the _Planter_ if they never acted.

 

“Drummers,” he told Philbert. “Tell them to charge into the galley with the blue fang sail.” He turned to the signal bearer. “Signal the _Firestarter_! Tell them to get in position to launch their load.” As he turned to next signal bearer a thought crossed his mind, then turned back to the first. “Tell them their whole load. I want those ships disabled.” To the second signal bearer he ordered, “Tell _Black Betha_ and the _Cinnamon Wind_ to follow the _Hullbreaker_ ’s course!” Aemon and Philbert turned back to observe the pirates realize it was a trap and yet they still kept coming.

 

Philbert began relaying orders to the crew to bring the sail down and lower mast, as the oarsmen ran to their spots and grab their oars. At first the change in movement was not as smooth as some ships Aemon has been on but then they sped towards their target. As they moved at full speed, the royal fleet fell into line. Aemon left Philbert to armor up for the battle.

 

Cory and Gunter were dawning meager armor, a leather gambeson for Cory and a hauberk for Gunter. Howald, a veteran of sailing the God’s Eye had on scale armor and a halfhelm, over that a yellow surcoat adorned with nine black bats. Aemon himself put on a byrnie and a long-sleeved black and red surcoat over that and forgo a helmet even when Gunter glared at him. Maegon was armored similar to Aemon but his surcoat was decorated with a red salamander breathing red and yellow flames on an orange field.

 

A burning barrel flew overhead as the _Planter_ split off north from her pursuers. On deck he heard someone sing a litany to the Mother for mercy and another to the Warrior for strength. Aemon prayed to sea and the wind for there were no heart trees at sea. _I pray it’s enough_.

 

The first galley came at them strong and fast, but the pirate-captain realized to late that the _Hullbreaker_ ’s hull was iron capped and the prow protruded like a battering ram. “Hold on tight, my prince!” Philbert said, and Aemon listened immediately.

 

They slammed so hard into the first galley they tore a gash so deep half of its forecastle was split. Aemon unsheathed his sword. He wasn’t the first through the breach, but he didn’t dishonor himself.

 

Aemon followed Ser Philbert like he was under his command, though in a way Aemon was under Philbert’s command. He had to leap the gash the galley made and jumped right into a swing from a blue-clothed pirate. Aemon brought his shield up in time to defend himself. His shield cracked from the force of the blow. His foe was shorter than him but stockier with arms as burly as a smith. And his strikes hit hard and true. Aemon was pushed back toward the gash he jumped and knew the pirate was leading him there.

 

Aemon tried the move Ser Arthur thought him years ago, a complex movement that required to move several body parts at once. As his foe pulled back for one last strike, Aemon twisted and spun out the way rather than let it hit his shield and slashed his sword down upon the pirate’s. Once the pirate and him switched places he kicked him in the back down the splintery gash.

 

He hit several decks hard before being consumed into frothing water beneath the two galleys. As Aemon caught his breath, he surveyed the scene. The _Cinnamon Wind_ was firing arrows at the cluster of pirates and other ships. On the _Hullbreaker_ his men were pushing back the pirates to the aftcastle. But one group off to the starboard were hacking away any enemies that came close trying to save their allies. Aemon saw it was only three of them, but the man dealing the most damage was none other than Drak the Fang.

 

It had to be him, his hair was dyed an outrageous blue color, three scars parallel ran down his left eye, and he wield a sword in one hand and a dagger made of a dragon bone teeth in the other. Drak’s drive of carnage led him right to Cory where he just axed a man in the belly and pulled out his entrails. Corliss’s poleaxe was ill fitted against a man who wielded two weapons though.

 

Aemon rushed to his friend’s side as Drak hammered at the leather-coated steel shaft of Corliss’s poleaxe. Another pirate came at Corliss from the left, although gloomy and dreary, he was never slow. Corliss tipped his poleaxe down to separate him and Drak then turned and impaled the charging pirate on the spear tip above the axe. The pirate held on to the poleaxe as he died, and Drak raised his dragon fang dagger above his head.

 

Aemon was able to slash at Drak before he could bring his dagger down. Drak turns toward him with a dark scowl as he parries Aemon’s slash. “You a bed slave boy?” Drak asks as he savagely slashes at Aemon. “A little wee boy in the wrong place!” Ser Gerold always told Aemon to analyze his opponents. To never go into a battle blind. _And I just did_ so. As Aemon narrowly avoided a horizontal slash aimed at his stomach, he searched the pirate-captain. They were the same height, but the similarities ended there. Drak was wiry thin that belied muscle underneath, though his figure was more filled than Aemon’s. His right eye was a blue desert. Deserted of all emotion but cruelty.

 

“I could’ve sworn I had your mother once,” he spit at Aemon. Aemon’s vision darkened and a fire built in his gut. Although he knew it was impossible for this scum to know his mother. He didn’t even bother trying the breathing techniques Gerold and Arthur taught him when Aemon’s blood boiled. He forgot all his training and brawled. He leapt into the man.

 

Aemon punched with his left and his shield iron-rim smashed against Drak’s face. A tooth went flying across the deck. He saw an opening and leapt to capitalize on it. As Aemon followed up with a slash at Drak’s unguarded throat the whole ship rocked and tilted hard. He lost his footing mid-strike and tumbled. He involuntarily rolled and fell backward as the whole galley threatened to capsize. Aemon had to let go off his sword or face the consequences of slamming into it in a roll.

 

He forgot his shield and felt his cheek gash into the iron-rim so hard his teeth chattered. Thank the gods the ship stopped capsizing before he could hit the railing. When he rose, he saw that the port side of the galley was rammed by one of the pirate’s cogs and a gangplank was dropped and reinforcements came running in.

 

Aemon slowly checked his limbs for anything broken. When he found none, he drew his dagger, a gift from his grandmother. A fine piece of Valyrian steel with a black amethyst pommel. His cracked shield rose in his left. He charged back into the fray and searched for Drak amongst the chaos. The crew of the _Hullbreaker_ still outnumbered the pirates two-to-one, but the tide was against them.

 

Out in the sea another cog was heading to hit them as well, but a flaming barrel exploded on its mast and rained flaming oil all across the upper deck. Aemon watched mesmerized as the cog exploded into flames and its drift came to a stop. It only broke when a dirty pirate covered in dirt attacked him. Aemon ended it fast then took his sword.

 

He cut through the mass of pirates trying to reach Drak again, hoping no one killed him before he did, or he fell overboard when the cog rammed them. But his hopes for once were true. There was the pirate killing Ser Philbert with a brutal flash of silver light. Philbert’s head rolled from his shoulders. Aemon watched it fall with anguish and disgust. Drak saw him and smiled a bloody smile.

 

“I lost two teeth because of you bastard,” he walked forward.

 

“You may lose more,” Aemon raised his stolen sword and pointed it at Drak’s chest. “Surrender.” Aemon was slightly hoping he would surrender; his first battle was starting to be not as glory-praised as the songs and stories.

 

His response was a blood full spit at Aemon’s feet and attack at Aemon’s left. Aemon’s shield splintered even more by the attack. His sword barely came up in time to parry the dagger. Drak began to harass Aemon more and more with his words. This went on for a little, bit by bit Aemon’s shield would break and Drak would tire from telling Aemon about all the silver-haired whores he bedded that looked like him, at every word Aemon’s eyes would darken. Till Aemon retaliated and attacked in earnest. He slashed high and low, cutting pieces of Drak off with every attack. Aemon was warming up and the flare in his belly was in his hands. He wanted to hurt him more but when an opportunity presented itself, he took it. Aemon ducked a lazy high slash at his head and cut into Drak’s thigh so deep he almost cut it off. Drak fell on his back in a sob, clutching his thigh.

 

Drak was crying for mercy and telling Aemon he surrendered. But Aemon darkly remembered what he said about his mother and raised his sword. But Maegon, covered in blood and bone-tired stopped him. “You need to see this.”

 

Looking up from the pitiful Drak he noticed the battle was over. All were watching him, sailors and surrendered pirates. Wood littered the sea around them, some still flaming. “You were toying with him,” Maegon said as they got in a small row boat. “Row to the longship,” he told the sailor at the oars.

 

“No, I was fighting him,” Aemon defended himself but even it felt like a weak defense to him.

 

Maegon’s eyes were hard. “You got skill boy, but there’s a darkness in you to.” Aemon ignored him and watched the longship get closer.

 

Abroad the longship bodies littered the deck, Ser Davos was leaning over something with Ser Gunter. When they approached Gunter eyed him critically looking for wounds. “Look at this, your highness,” he pointed to a pirate with a black and gold surcoat and a tarpaulin sail of the same color. “Found the sail in the hold. Look at it. It’s not new nor was it stolen.” The pirate and the sail had the same sigil, a golden kraken on a black field.

 

“What are Greyjoys doing with displaced Stepstone pirates?” Aemon was genuinely confused.

 

“That’s the golden dragon question my prince,” Davos looked up.

 

Aemon felt dread rise of the implications of this knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aemon and Rhaenys interaction will come soon. Two or three more chapters down the road, I don't want to rush the story. ;)
> 
> P.S. These are unreliable narrators, not everything they say is the truth, or right. ;)


	9. The Calm Before the Storm: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger plots. Rhaenys holds council, has apprehension for her role in the game of thrones, and JonCon and the Golden Company are making their mark on the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support.

The Mockingbird

The whore was of the greatest variety and the lord was the scion of one of oldest families in Volantis. Shayla was dark-haired, lithe, and pretty. Arbo Venigar, was a pale, longhaired and almost purple eyed stocky man. A fine specimen, and a great babbler. And he had bought Shayla for two nights, now she was seeing him off with a lady’s kiss. Petyr closed the peephole and returned to the papers he had received from his abundant and gracious resources.

 

The Prince of Summerhall has dropped anchor at Dragonstone, and will be soon on the return, triumphant. And genially rewarded. Rewarded with a marriage the best reward in their society, to a woman of the highest birth one could hope for. _One day I’ll have them all scrambling after me, as well_. A great wedding in Winterfell, in the coming months. It would be great to see Cat again, maybe he could tag along as a member of court.

 

But alas, no, it was too risky, no matter if the king was in Winterfell. Being there could throw a wrench in everything he planned for years. From manipulating Brandon Stark of Lyanna’s abduction to bedding Lysa and being his puppet, _the boy Sweetrobin may even be_ _mine as well_. And Petyr’s only plan for Winterfell and the Starks was madness and chaos. Once this chaos brings him Ned Stark’s head, Cat will be all his. **_As she was meant to be_**.

 

His allies in the Riverlands, the marauding group of outlaws known as the Smallwood Brotherhood are resting near Saltpans sent him an update on their progress. _I’ll need them near Riverrun to be effective for my next ploy_. He began penning his response, with orders to go to Riverrun. The only part on his end was talking to Vylarr, of the Red Cloaks, he needed to buy armor off the man. A lion helm there and a roaring lion rondel here, enough for a clandestine outlaw to be inspected. He sighed and leaned back in the plush chair in his brothel’s upper floor and calculated the last of the reports.

 

No news that he will need to adjust his plans for today. _Everything was on track_ , he thought as he cleaned up the papers. Rhaegar will force marriage on his true children, no matter how much he hated it. Jon Arryn will die, Lysa will return to Eyrie and take control from her good-daughter the childless Sharra. The king and the court had plans to travel to Highgarden to retrieve Aegon’s soon to be wife in the next month anyhow, but now with Arryn to die soon, Rhaegar will be forced to travel North.

 

Although the king will have a myriad pick of choice for a new hand. There’s the oaf Mace Tyrell, the father of the daughter his heir will soon marry, or Tywin Lannister his good-father, Yohn Royce, a capable bastard, and even Stannis Baratheon. But Eddard Stark will be Rhaegar’s best hope for a firm and resolute while lenient to a fault hand, not to mention they became more than an allies during the war. _Shared grief will do that to you_. There the second seed will be planted between the Lannisters and Targaryens. Once war envelops Westeros the ladder to the top will be easy to climb. _Bloody hell, the Baelish name could be as dynastic as Targaryen and Stark and Lannister once I’m done_.

 

As he cleaned his desk a stiff folded yellow paper caught his eye. It was small and eluded Petyr’s gaze, and it was in his new pile. He opened the folded paper and read. For once Petyr was shocked by news. His legs gave such a exciting jitter he had to sit down.

 

That extra under the table loan he had given magister Asadero Kastaris had finally paid off. A few months back Asadero traveled to King’s Landing to meet with the king and his hand. In exchange for some support and money, Asadero would advocate for an alliance with the Seven Kingdoms in the Conclave. Asadero was to use the support and money for when he and his allies in the Conclave would retaliate from their lost in a grave political match against their opponents in the other party led by some old fool named Varghan Othone.

 

It seems that the Othone’s party had used that victory to not only push forward their new war in the Stepstones, with the Golden Company’s men with zero fees. _I always thought that was strange_. But too also aid the Golden Company in return. A new Blackfyre had risen from the ashes of the War of Ninepenny Kings.

 

Petyr was laughing when Shayla returned from the sucking off the heir to the Venigar wealth. “What’s so funny, milord?”

 

“You ever play a game, and miss a player?”

 

“Depends on the game. There’s no whore games where you miss a player,” she giggled.

 

He laughed again. “I suppose there isn’t my dear,” he rose from the chair and caressed Shayla’s shoulders. His smile grew cold, “But there’s one game, one can ill afford to miss even the minor detail.”

 

“Like hide and seek? But you usually know all the players in that game, milord.”

 

“Just like hide and seek, I suppose.” He walked back to his desk. “What did Arbo say?”

 

“Same old, the prince Viserys will marry his half-sister sometime after the heir and the spare. Though it seems the spare will be married first.”

 

He bid Shayla to leave, but something she said was bothering him. _You do usually know all the players_ , he thought. They have a certain scent and gait to them. Could he have missed a player? Does he know them? Who could be a Blackfyre supporter at court? Half the court was Targaryens and their loyal friends who would lose all to side against them.

 

If Petyr had this information, then so did the Spider. Although it is odd this report’s information came out of nowhere. How did a Blackfyre hide so long and gain enough allies to sway the Conclave in Tyrosh? Something was off and it did not smell right, it smelled corrupted and decadent. Like chaos.

 

Perhaps he will pay his good eunuch friend a visit, see how much he knows.

 

* * *

 

The Silver Maiden

Dressed in a pale violet dress, that flowed like water down her body, and with a bored gaze in her haunting indigo eyes, Rhaenys or the Silver Maiden as the realm calls her (though men call her that for different reasons), listens to Stannis talk of the hearsays coming from the Stepstones and Tyrosh, and reports of more traffic passing by Tarth and Estermont. Pirates or traders, Baratheon’s men didn’t know.

 

Rhaenys leaned back in her chair and ignored the pointed looks of Stannis and Pycelle. “These rumors are just rumors,” Pycelle said again. “It is common knowledge that our good ser, Ser Barristan, killed the last Blackfyre from the male lineage.”

 

“Sounds like it was a little white lie, maester,” Rhaenys replied knowing Pycelle would fume.

 

He made an exasperated and annoyed sound. “Princess, this is a delicate matter, perhaps a woman such as yourself is not warranted.”

 

That angered her. “Was I unwelcome when my father is here,” she sighed haughtily. Looking at her nails, she studied Pycelle under her lashes. “Alas he is in a meeting with another maester isn’t he Lord Varys?”

 

Varys tittered into a powder hand, and Aelor almost spat out his drink. It seemed impossible for Pycelle’s old face to grow redder if it could she didn’t know how. He fumbled for a response, but Rhaenys beat him to it. “Thank you for your insight grand maester,” she turned from him. “Ser Barristan,” she called to the old knight where he sat trying to make himself scarce from one of the common arguments Pycelle and she have. “You fought the Blackfyres did you not, how do you find these rumors?”

 

“Unlikely princess, but these decisions should be up to the king,” he says.

 

Sometimes Rhaenys hated the small council, especially the old men. “Father and Lord Arryn are unavailable at the moment and as royal advisor I have the right to speak with the king’s authority while he and the hand are absent,” her voice was hard.

 

Uncle Aelor’s face was firm, “Rhaenys that’s quite enough,” she rose an eyebrow at him. “Varys tell us what you know of these rumors.”

 

Varys’ voice was as high and sweet as a child. “The Stepstones are aflame, pirates, such as Drak the Fang who Prince Aemon is valiantly fighting are fleeing the unrest. Reports are conflicted, some say the Tyroshi are finally clearing the scum, others say the Golden Company are carving a kingdom, others whisper about a new pirate king from the Basilisk Isles has moved in. But all reports say the one causing this are building a formidable fort on Bloodstone.”

 

“If this person leading this really is from the Basilisk Isles, trade could be disrupted,” Aelor said. “We should prepare in case.”

 

“We should inform our traders,” Rhaenys said, Pycelle eyed her suspiciously. “Maybe we can have the royal fleet patrol our waters.”

 

“A fine suggestion princess,” Monford smiled coquettishly at her. She lifted an eyebrow, _your married by the seven_. Having a man agree with you as a flirting tactic was worse than disagreeing just because she was a woman. “I’ll have our Blackwater Bay lords send out the ships anchored at their ports and to send out some of their own warships.”

 

“And word should be sent to lords whose lands that border or are close to the Stepstones,” Rhaenys began writing down her orders herself. She didn’t trust the doddering fool Pycelle. He controlled the ravens and flow of information. He might even send the orders to Cersei first for her approval before sending, _if he sent them_. Rhaenys stretched. “If that is all, I have an appointment with a maester soon.”

 

“There is another matter, your _highness_ ,” Pycelle withdrew a letter. The sealing wax was red with a dragon imprinted. A genuine letter from Dragonstone.

 

“Let’s have it then,” Stannis bit out from the Valyrian sphinxes. He was on his way out and seemed bothered to be stopped. Lord Stannis was likely in a hurry to meet with Lord Arryn.

 

“Prince Aemon reports of victory over the pirates. Drak died in captivity from his wounds. The royal fleet has lost only thirty men to the battle,” Monford was pleased if his grin was a sign. “He says there was a disturbing discovery in one of the pirate’s ships…” Pycelle seemed to read it over and over again, and still seemed unsure of the contents. “Ironborn… Ironborn with the Greyjoy sigil in hiding were among Drak’s pirates.”

 

Aelor and Stannis exchanged a look, and Varys seemed unperturbed, but Barristan looked to be concerned.

 

“Ironborn are known to sometimes take up marauding and pirating as a substitute for the abolishment of their old way,” Varys said.

 

Stannis replied, “Lord Greyjoy can’t possibly control all of his savages.”

 

“I think Aems is over reacting, they could be traitors, this doesn’t mean they are under orders from Lord Greyjoy,” Rhaenys looked at all of them. “It’s too early to tell what this means anyhow. Varys could you look into it?”

 

“As my princess wills,” his bow was simpering, but Rhaenys strode from the council chambers with nary a second glance to him or the others. On her way to her chambers she ran into Aegon. And with him were his sycophants and companions.

 

Her brother’s long silver hair was tousled from horse-riding, and his dark blue-purple eyes were bright with joy. “Sister, how great to see you. I never see you anymore.”

 

“You would if you attended council meetings like father ordered you to,” she complained.

 

“Aww, don’t be like that, you know I cannot stand that dreadful chamber,” he flipped his tossed hair out of his face as he looked down upon her. “Besides there are more joys to life than sitting down in a room full of old man.”

 

“Monford is barely a decade older than us,” she replied.

 

“And as boring as our cousin Quentyn, I do wonder how his wife stands him,” he smiled lightheartedly at her. Despite trying to lecture Aegon she laughed along with him and his friends.

 

His closest companions came forward to greet her. Renly kissed her fingers and eyed her like a piece of gold or property. Not as a man would. _Aemon looks at his swords the same way Renly regards me_. Ser Loras bowed to her and gave her one of the many flowers the knight always had on him. She barely acknowledged the flower.

 

“Lord Monford flirted with me again, just like Quentyn used to do before the wedding was called off,” she smiled back at Aegon. It has been too long they have smiled at each other; he was always off being the worst heir their father could ask for or fighting with her over such minor issues. But he was the best choice as heir for father, honestly.

 

She and Myrcella were women, so she was unable to. Aemon was still considered a bastard by many and was politically challenged; Joffrey was a sadistic prick of an idiot. And sweet Tommen would be destroyed by the iron throne. That left Aegon, the Red Viper reborn. Though he was not as politically challenged as Aemon she had her misgivings about his capacity. _Though I challenge everyone’s_ ability, Rhaenys thought. Not to mention Aegon was as courteous and graceful as Aemon was solemn and sharp. Aegon’s eyes laughed, Aemon’s watched.

 

“There’s ways to avoid unwanted attention, my princess,” Renly smiled brightly. He was handsome with dark, black hair and bright blue-green eyes. Though the suggestion was as empty as Renly’s head. “Your eyes of the darkest indigo have entranced me since the day we met.”

 

She giggled at his attempt. But Renly mistook it for a flirting laugh. “I’m glad my words of praise are making you smile princess,” he kissed her hand again as Aegon and Rhaenys parted.

 

Aegon turned around from down the hall, “Don’t forget we have a _family_ dinner tomorrow night when the bastard returns!”

 

She smiled till he turned around then frowned. There was Aegon’s fault, in public he was the perfect prince, but in private he barely tolerated his family. All of them, from Aelora to Rhaegar, it even seemed like he hated her sometimes as well. Aelor, Rhaella, and Rhaegar have tried to get Aegon more involved in political matters for years but he shrugs them off as a dog does water.

 

Now Aegon was a man, for two years now, and he is still unwed. But not for a lack of a betrothed. Margaery Tyrell’s plump ass sits in Highgarden waiting for the call while Lady Olenna insolently simmers at the disrespect shown her family. Aegon’s reason for putting off the wedding? He was in love. And not with a peasant like Duncan the Small and Jenny of Oldstones, with the only person he could never be with. Aegon and Renly’s affair was the worst kept secret in the Red Keep, all knew from Bevicard to the lowly stable hand.

 

Rhaenys wasn’t any better however, she was betrothed to her cousin Quentyn for two months and expected to marry him. But she scared him so much he had to turn her down, _also the small matter of my potential infertility_. Uncle Doran needed an heir through her, not a loveless marriage with her as the head of his son’s household.

 

The idea of marriage has been on Rhaenys’s mind for a while. Father, Stannis, Uncle Aelor, and Jon Arryn had been talking about the marriages that will soon occur in private meetings. Away from the small council, they wanted this to be as a secret as possible. But rumors are always leaked, and more than naught were wrong. Her betrothal wasn’t to Willas Tyrell, or Robb Stark, nor Rodrik Greyjoy, or even Harry Hardyng, no to her own brother. Aemon Targaryen, the Bastard Prince of Winterfell and Summerhall.

 

In her chambers Septa Asherah was reading by the windowsill. A small brown and worn book of poetry dedicated to the Seven in her hands, she was reading out loud to Valeria Kastaris, her new lady-in-waiting from Tyrosh, who Rhaenys allowed into her household when tensions rose a few months back. Though this was all before the pirate issue in the Stepstones, Valeria’s position might be threatened, and that could damage Rhaenys herself and her secure position at court. _I will need to keep an eye on the situation in Tyrosh_ , she thought.

 

 Nessaria was braiding Allyria’s hair, humming a song that sounded similar to one Rhaenys’s mother would sing to her at night. But it was Talla Tarly who greeted her first, sitting cross-legged stitching a scarf of red and grey. “Princess, the meeting was rather short wasn’t it? You’re usually gone for hours.”

 

“Some trouble in the Stepstones, but that’s it.”

 

Valeria perked up. “Is Tyrosh in danger?” Her accent dragged the words in a way that had even Rhaenys feeling attracted.

 

“No, they might even be the ones causing the issues, the reports are confusing.” Rhaenys leaned back on her plush settee. Relaxing for once, with the wind from the open window caressing her forehead in all the right places. “Has the maester come by yet?” Balerion hopped onto her lap and purred as she rubbed him.

 

“No.” Asherah closed her book of poetry. “Is it true then?”

 

Rhaenys opened her eyes to study them all, Valeria was uninterested, Talla seemed to be conflicted, Asherah curious, Nessaria and Allyria were worried. “It seems I am to wed, truly this time. There’s no way to back out of this one.”

 

“Who do you think it is?” Allyria Dayne asked.

 

“Someone of great birth and a loyal servant of the seven of course.” Asherah opined. “So many lords have come to Septon Charlos asking for blessings for their betrothal attempts.”

 

“Though no matter how many ask, all King Rhaegar says all dealings will be discussed in private and taken into consideration.” Maegelle returns from the privy. She pets Balerion before sitting on a chair by the window. “There’s one name being spread as a top contender for your hand Rhae.”

 

“Is it truly Prince Aemon?” Talla said quietly. Rhaenys frowned in pain for the young girl, her childhood crush would be broken by the realities of nobility. She patted her hand comfortingly.

 

“Nothing is set in stone, maester Merys has yet to examine me,” Rhaenys felt a shudder through her thinking about what’s to come. “Though Lord Arryn and father have decided this is the best option forward.”

 

Allyria tried to comfort Rhaenys. “Aemon is a good man; Arthur always has good things to say about him.”

 

“Very handsome as well, those grey eyes have a look that Viserys could never imitate,” Nessaria said. Then whispered, “If he ever dared to leave Dragonstone at any point.”

 

Rhaenys turned over suddenly weary. “Doesn’t change the fact he’s a bastard.”

 

That quieted the room, despite her misgivings about Aemon he was liked by many, especially Talla. “But he’s also a prince, princess,” Allyria defended. “And he has lands and titles,” Nessaria darkly commented. Rhaenys was going to reply when the Kingsguard on duty knocked on the door.

 

“Princess, the King and the Hand are here to see you.” Rhaenys sighed and rose.

 

“Sorry, ladies.” She shooed them out. “We will have to continue this conversation later at the Maidenvault.” As the ladies were ushered out, father and Jon Arryn took her ladies unoccupied seats. A short man with a face eerily similar to a frog was with them. His face was unattractive and broad, his too far apart eyes had a grandfatherly look to them.

 

“Hey, little maester,” father caressed a cheek. “This is maester Merys, straight from the Citadel. A patron of women studies.”

 

There was the usual glint of guilt in her father’s eyes. She had long forgiven him, though he carried it like an old knight carries an old wound. “Do I have to father?” Her words came out weary. “Aemon doesn’t even like me as a sister, how will he like me as a wife.”

 

Father’s eyes had a faraway look to them. “Aemon loves you and Aegon, no matter how much you all fight. His mother was like that too.”

 

“It is also a great match for you as well, I wouldn’t forget that, princess.” Lord Arryn supplied like her ladies did. “The trouble of making this wedding happen.” He exclaimed in fond exasperation. “Ned and Queen Rhaella argued against it of course. She wanted Princess Daenerys for Aemon.”

 

She snorted. “Dany would be a better wife for Aemon, they like each other at least.” If Rhaenys was being honest with herself, the thought of marrying _Aemon_ didn’t scare her, it was the thought of a man touching her. Rhaenys was as flowered as the Maiden. She had truly only kissed one boy. She was young then, close to twelve and the son of Lord Clifford was six and ten, tall, blonde and square-jawed. They kissed, but when his hands wandered, Rhaenys was harshly reminded of her mother’s last days and Ser Ronnal stabbing her. In her sudden panic she unconsciously pushed the boy off her. They never met in secret again.

 

Her days with Quent the Frog weren’t any better, he tried harder than a squire scouring mail shirts clean. Flowers, jewels, small gestures of affection, in the end his touch repulsed her as well.

 

“Let’s get this done then, we do have a wedding to plan.” The men gave her appraising looks. Father and Lord Arryn gave her privacy behind a dark silk veil, while Merys went to work. She flinched at every touch in the beginning. His fingers cold and clammy against her core. His hands were cool blue-grey steel, and hesitant as if he was afraid of dishonoring a princess. _He should be. Should be scared of me and Balerion_. Balerion watched him from her bed fearlessly as he examined her, Merys glanced every so often at the black cat in apprehension. The whole process felt invasive and uncomfortable. When he was done, he and father whispered in private while Rhaenys fixed her dress. But she could hear the end of the maester’s report. “…we will have to wait and see your grace. This is a case of the gods, not men.”

 

“There’s nothing you can do?” father’s voice was weary. “Are you sure there isn’t an old tome on remedies.”

 

“We maesters are knowledgeable, but we aren’t all-knowing, your grace.”

 

“Likely maester Pycelle’s initial diagnoses was incorrect, we won’t know till she is wed, deflowered, and firmly secure in her position as Princess of Summerhall,” Arryn said.

 

“We can only hope it is enough, there’s a scent in the air. Can you smell it? It smells like blood ready to spill, and salt…” Arryn nodded at him. “Aegon won’t be allowed to put off his marriage any longer, time is of the essence, the dreams are returning…” There was something father and Lord Arryn were hiding, and Rhaenys was beyond curious, she had been for days. Father spotted her eavesdropping out the corner of his eye. He walked to her and brushed back her silver waves. He gave her a concerned and searching look and smiled. “Curious little maester?”

 

“Just so, father. Just so.” She answered with a smile.

 

* * *

 

The Father

A father looks upon his son with joy and pride, and everyday Jon did the same. The boy and him shared no blood, not even distant through cousins. Only a bond formed by being around each other for over a decade now.

 

Daemon the Fourth of His Name of House Blackfyre raised his sword above his head, as he stood upon a promontory amidst a sea of sellswords, warriors, knights, and guardsmen. They cheered his name over and over. Their roars seemed to shake the ground to Jon. “A feast to our victory,” Daemon roared.

 

The camp followers and former slaves of the pirates turned the center of the camp into a feast of the slain food, women, and treasures, as grand as the ones Jon had been to in the throne room back home, in Westeros. The put long, old trestles tables into four squares, each square’s area was larger than the next. At the center of the middle square was the main table, for the serjeants and the Golden Company’s allies. Like a dais of sorts.

 

Dick Cole was throwing up long necklaces of silver and gold, while his cousin Will Cole snatched them in the air deftly. The pirates and sellsails here kept all their treasure hidden but a hammer and spade got the job done. Black Balaq and Ser Franklyn Flowers found a grand cellar full of treasures beneath an old and abandoned manse on Bloodstone, ever since then all buildings came down. There was enough to finance their imminent war and their Tyroshi allies.

 

And some treasure couldn’t be hidden. Like the women. A blonde woman, that was a bedslave to one of the captains on Grey Gallows, sat upon Daemon’s lap. Jon disapprove and made that known by glaring at the boy.

 

“Come off it Griff,” Mortin Peake said. “A boy of seventeen has needs as well.”

 

“Needs that shouldn’t involve a case of the pox,” he rose to pry the girl of him. Mortin’s hand shoot up to stop him.

 

“In front of all the men?” Mortin’s grip was strong. “The Golden Company will never follow weakness, it was built upon bitter steel, not copper.” Jon sat but he tried to show his displeasure to Daemon. Mortin wrinkled his thrice broken nose at Jon as he watched the wordless exchange between father and son.

 

The boy blushed in embarrassment but nodded. “Duck! Here take her, a gift for your long due knighthood.” The camp erupted in cheers, Rolly was teased, clapped, and slapped across his back all the way to the dais. “My closest friend, for you.” The girl was given over to Rolly. The boys embraced and the bedslave went off somewhat reluctantly with Rolly to his tent.

 

“Crisis avoided,” Harry sniffed beside Mortin.

 

“He’s too important to lose to something as senseless as the pox,” Aegor Blacksteel coldly remarked, as the core leaders and serjeants of the Golden Company watched Daemon walk amongst the men. Laughing, singing, jesting, even playing a game of dice with Lucas Harroway and Marq Mandrake. “If he died here all our plans with Tyrosh would end.”

 

“It could still end in ashes,” Lysono Maar smirked. His emerald piercings shone in the candlelight. “Magister Othone has influence in the conclave, but we have Kastaris and others opposing this _cleansing_ of the Stepstones.”

 

“I still have misgivings of this plan,” Ser Franklyn added.

 

“The boy will marry a daughter of Othone, and he will give us Tyrosh. The men, coin, and power to take back our homes.” Harry firmly, well as firmly as Harry could, said.

 

“The plan will succeed,” Aegor reassured Frankly. “You forget who has true power here Harry.” Aegor’s voice was cold.

 

“Magister Illyrio has my undying respect. His son shall be king of the Seven Kingdoms, on my mother’s grave.” Harry mocked Aegor’s position.

 

Black Balaq chuckled. “If it’s on your mother’s grave, you still owe me ten dragons.” Everyone laughed on the dais, including the black mooded Aegor. But it was more of a reluctant chuckle.

 

Before the War of the Ninepenny Kings, there were three branches of the Blackfyres left to the world. The descendants of Haegon I, Aenys (Daemon I’s fifth son), and Aegor and Calla’s line. That war changed everything, the Blackfyres lost everything, revenue, respect, and power in Essos. They were seen as powerful, then they were weak, and opportunists did not hesitate.

 

One branch, Aegor and Calla’s branch, last descendant to trace a complete lineage back to Aegon IV was Haegon Rivers. Aegor Bittersteel’s sons and grandsons were given the responsibility to be the keepers of Blackfyre, like Aegor was. And to only give the sword to those who were worthy. Haegon Rivers died in some war or another in the Disputed Lands the Golden Company was hired to fight, but his son and squire Aegor survived, and became the next keeper of the sword Blackfyre. Aegor will only give the boy the sword once he proved himself worthy. And Jon had been assured it was soon.

 

When Maelys died by the hands of Ser Barristan, his three children, Viserra, Roxana, and Vaemond were lost to the wind when all their estates were taken, and his wife killed. Roxana was found dead two years later in Pentos, Vaemond was rumored to be taken into a mummer’s troupe and lost there, sold to a sorcerer. Viserra became a slave in Lys and renamed Serra. Aenys’s descendant Illyrio luckily found her. They fell in love and married in Pentos. From this union came their king, Daemon IV Blackfyre. Now there was only two branches of the family, down to two male descendants.

 

Demon was a lithe, well-trained youth of seventeen, with shoulder-length silver-gold hair and dark purple eyes. He resembled a younger Illyrio, but also his distant cousin Rhaegar very much. Raised to be the perfect king, he spoke many languages, versed in law and lore, and was a proficient warrior, though his numbers could be worked on.

 

Compared to Aegor, he was perfect. Aegor was raised in a camp such as this, not pampered like Daemon was in a manse and on the _Shy Maid_. Aegor was dark and always in a black-mood. As tall and broad as a stallion, black-haired and dark eyed, with a long, silky black beard. He resembled Robert Baratheon more than Daemon. Though dark blooded, he was openhanded and did not shy away from giving praise. And sheathed at his waist was a dark leather grip, a pommel of a black flame, and black dragon head crossguards, the fabled Blackfyre. The sword of kings. If Harry was the captain-general, Daemon the king, Aegor was the true power. He held what many saw as the symbol of power, that made him a dangerous adversary and ally.

 

Fortuitously, Aegor loved Daemon as a younger brother and recognized his right as king. Jon marked that to his instance of Aegor and Daemon to see each other as much as possible in the _Shy Maid_ ’s travels. Though that wasn’t the only barrier to Daemon’s ascension, namely three man, and one them who has better blood ties to be king. Robert Baratheon, Ronnel Baratheon, and Rhogoro, Robert’s bastard half-breed son.

 

“We should return to Tyrosh with news of our victory. Only two more islands to capture and Tyrosh controls the main trade routes into the Narrow Sea from the Sunset and Summer Seas,” Jon says, as Aegor gives him a look.

 

“And to no doubt reassure Othone our deal is still on. Once the boy weds, he will be crowned king of Tyrosh,” Aegor says.

 

“Illyrio would be proud no doubt of that,” Robert Baratheon finally roars. He had been suspiciously quiet. “But he will be wanting a sweeter prize!” Jon was surprised Robert had been quiet so long anyhow. “The fruits of the Seven Kingdoms!” Somehow him roaring got the camp involved. Brendel Byrne was the first to shout in response, “HOME!”

 

The cry of “HOME!!” Rang through the camp. Robert was standing on the table now, “HOME! HOME!” He polished his horn and threw it. “To hell with the Targaryens! We have our own dragon! DAEMON!!” The camp roared the king’s name louder than for home. Jon smiled but felt dread of how quickly Robert could sway a crowd.

 

Aegor never cheered but raised his horn in appreciation. Mortin whispered in Jon’s ear. “Home it is.” Daemon was thrown on Rhogoro’s broad, muscular shoulders and carried around the camp. Though Daemon was the one they cheered and hailed, who held the true power here? Robert, Harry, Aegor, Illyrio, _Daemon_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are loved and appreciated!


	10. The Calm Before the Storm: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aemon returns.

**The Bastard Prince**

Aemon laughed as Maegon belched. Though the smell was anything but amusing. “Gods, you need to eat better.”

 

“I eat as well as a prince,” he defended, belching every word. “Gods this drink is potent!”

 

“Rum is a powerful drink good ser.” Howald remarked as he finished another pint of the spiced rum. “The drink of men,” he glanced at Kojja, red faced. “And women of course, I meant men as an all-encompassing phrase.” She only raised a graceful black eyebrow at him in response.

 

The low ceiling of the mess hall of the _Hullbreaker_ was quiet except for the two loud lordlings, knight, trader, and prince. To celebrate their victory over Drak the Fang, Kojja Mo gifted him two barrels of spiced rum straight from Jhala. He was hesitant to take such precious cargo. “This would get you at least fifteen gold dragons _each_ ,” he tried not accepting. “Don’t gift me such a priceless commodity.”

 

“We have a hundred more somewhere in the hold, silver prince!” Her smile was bright and strong, perfect white teeth in a striking brown face. “This is our thanks for your help.”

 

“I followed my king’s orders is all,” Aemon said. “Besides it seemed you barely needed any help.” The _Cinnamon_ _Wind_ had lost one man in the whole conflict. From an infection caught by accidently stabbing his hand on an arrowhead.

 

She exclaimed an exasperation in her summer tongue. When he asked what it meant, she said, “It could be said in your tongue: you act as a humble bull with his leg broken.” He didn’t quite understand but she said it didn’t matter. The way she looked at him was enough. _Dark and lusty, and needed_. Feeling conflicted about taking her cargo, he asked her to join them in celebration before they parted east to the Jade Sea.

 

Kojja Mo drank as well as any man and was as wanton as one too. Uncle Tyrion, _he and Jaime were the only Lannisters I would ever like_ , once told him that Jalabhar Xho’s homeland worship their gods and goddess through lovemaking. To have sex for a Summer Islander was akin to the highest level of worship for them. Aemon had blushed a dark red as only a greenboy of thirteen could. Tyrion then dragged him to ask Jalabhar Xho some prayers of his homeland, once Tyrion memorized a few he took him to his room where he grabbed some gold.

 

Then Tyrion had taken him to Chataya’s brothel. “Time to make you a godly man Jon,” he declared. Though they did not get a chance to worship, Uncle Aelor stood in front of the door to the brothel with a white shadow, frowning. Aemon vaguely remembers the fear and apprehension of their commanding air. There was no way out of this one.

 

“Don’t disappoint me Aemon, I have enough of that from my own sons,” was all he had to say, and Aemon was dragged by his collar back to the Red Keep by Ser Gerold.

 

When Aegon found out he laughed so hard, he teared up and writhed on the floor of Aemon’s chambers. He found out through Aeryk but held in his laugh till he could laugh in Aemon’s face. Though afterward he took Aemon out for a ride around the royal demesne. Straight into a town called Usk, which went by another name, Pussyflower, for its popular tavern-brothel of the same name.

 

“My namesake, Aegon IV, when he was still a prince second in line for the throne, and as lusty as a mastiff was a frequent patron of brothels and whores. His father Viserys the Second forbid him from all brothels in King’s Landing, not unlike what Aelor has done. He placed spies and household knights in every winesink, cellar, brothel, and tavern. No matter where Aegon IV went he was denied service and escorted back to the Red Keep.” They dismounted and a lad with blonde hair, almost tow-headed took their reins. “So, he searched for alternatives, and came upon Usk while hawking one morning. Soon the quaint little village became the royal haven for princes to find release. When Viserys II learned he cast aside his orders and gave up on Aegon’s whoring ways.” Aegon declared.

 

He took a huge breath, and then breathed in the crisp summer air “Can you smell it? It smells of sex and excitement. I’ve been here thrice already, and it is my favorite brothel known to me. Trust my word as a prince and your big brother, you will have the time of your life here Aems.” Aegon promised.

 

At first, he objected, “I won’t father a bastard.” Aegon stared at him queerly (for once unsure of his little brother) and responded in his usual nonchalant way, “Who said anything about fathering?”

 

That night Aegon bought him the priciest whore in Pussyflower, a maid with red hair and blue-grey eyes named Adeliza. She was skilled and Aemon was as green as the grass, yet they had pleasurable night. As foretold and promised by Aegon. Aegon wasn’t idle either in that time, he bedded a girl that looked somewhat like Aelora, except for chestnut curls she had black hair and stormy eyes. _Later I learned it was Aelora’s mother_.

 

When they were worn out after their night of debauchery, drinking and whoring, Aegon smiled and said, “Rhaegar will either be wroth or unperturbed, which one?” He pulled out a golden dragon. “Wanna bet?” Rhaegar was more than wroth, the dragon had awakened. Aegon’s and his asses were so sore they couldn’t sit for days. Perhaps one of Aemon’s finest memories of Aegon.

 

“To Ser Gerold,” he suddenly raised a filled chalice. The others toasted and drunk without question. Thinking of that night reminded Aemon of Ser Gerold. The White Bull had been dead for nearly two years now. But he taught him most of his knowledge of swordplay at Dragonstone and Summerhall. He was Aemon’s constant shadow for thirteen years, and not having him around was queer. Rhaegar kept pushing him to choose another Kingsguard to replace him but Aemon felt none could replace him.

 

“Who is this Ser Gerold?” Kojja asked after refilling their cups. “He sounds very important.”

 

“An old friend, he was always honorable and did the right thing even when no one else did,” Aemon provided.

 

She digested that, “He sounds like a very good man. Could I inquire on how he died?”

 

“A cough at first,” he began sipping the rum. “Me, Gunter, and Gerold would traverse the Red Mountains for excitement some days. My grandmother’s court was full of old people and there was nothing to do but go to lessons and train.” Gunter looked at him fondly. “Especially when you have been North to the wall and swam beneath the Dragonmont or explored the Red Keep.”

 

“Sounds like quite an adventurous childhood,” her eyes filled him with delight. Brown and soft, unlike her hands, rough with callous from her goldenheart bow and rigors of sailing.

 

“It was, but I moved a lot. The longest place I’ve been was Summerhall for four years and Winterfell for five or six, before and after that I split my time between court, Summerhall, and the sea.”

 

“A man on sea for too long loses sight of land one day, my father used to say. It’s important to dock once a while.” Aemon understood that saying.

 

He continued the story, “He caught a chill the third night out. I remember the shaking, Gunter yelled at me, ‘fetch more wood boy! And not the sandbeggar, oaks, willows, something with girth.’” Gunter laughed with him.

 

“He died in the mountains?”

 

“No, the strangest thing, he recovered two days later. We went on to hunt a quail and a blue deer. When we arrived back at Summerhall he began to cough, the maester gave him medicine, but he said had we returned as soon as Gerald was able the sickness wouldn’t have spread to his lungs.”

 

There was three, now there was only two, him and Gunter. He was broken out of his revelries by Kojja’s hand on his thigh. Her smile was pure seduction, and Aemon felt his will leave. _Hell, I’m not betrothed, what would be the problem_. It was unlikely to beget a bastard on her, they worshipped through love, they have to have countermeasures like moon tea.

 

Her hand ran up to his crotch then down again to his thigh, back and forth. It was a pleasurable medicine, and half-drunk it was bound to make him spill when he was as hard as a battering ram.

 

His fortitude wouldn’t last long. Maegon grinned gummy at him. Cory was passed out and Gunter and Howald were speaking on the battle. Aemon couldn’t help but notice how inflated Howald made the battle. “…And Aemon leapt from the crow’s nest and sliced half his leg off,” he boasted. “You should have seen him, a true dragon!”  
  


“Howald I was there,” Gunter placed a hand on Howald’s shoulder. “I’m certain Aemon did not leap from the crow’s nest; it was near twenty feet high.”

 

Howald laughed. “You’re just sorry you missed it. You were too busy fighting Ironborn…”

 

Aemon whispered in Kojja’s ear, “My chambers.” She shuddered and rose first, hips swaying behind her. Aemon watched mesmerized and before he followed Maegon called to him.

 

“Spill on the belly, that works for me!”

 

Aemon grimaced, “Thanks for the information. Not that it was wanted.” Howald’s head turned from his story, and chuckled. “You will see Jeyne soon Salamander, now let Aems enjoy himself.”

 

 In his chambers Kojja laid on his bed, eager and ready. And above all, naked as her name day. Long supple legs, full-breasted with lighter colored brown nipples on her dark brown skin. Her waist was slim and full, with a deep valley between that led to her glistening core. “Come my prince, lets worship the gods,” her finger beckoned him.

 

His cock was as hard as the rod his father used to beat him and Egg’s asses for doing this exact thing. He fitted himself between Kojja’s valley and her mouth opened for him. Wet and sweet as an apple. Her tongue battled against his as she unlaced his breeches. His fingers entered her velvety heat, and she moaned into his mouth.

 

Her hand drew his cock out of his breeches and began rubbing his turgid length. Their mouths meet in fiery spiced rum passion and their hands caressed and foreplayed with each other’s bodies. Her thumb ran along his slit to gather up his precum. His body shook from the pleasure, in response he inserted another finger in her. Which soon became three as she trembled and gasped from pleasure.

 

Her firm grip on his cock trembled and loosened but her fervor didn’t. Honestly it made him spill faster along her thighs. He sighed in relief, then unbearable pleasure as she kept stroking him. The sight of his white seed against her dark thigh aroused him. “Vigorous. I like vigorous, the first spill is always the shortest, second is better.” He rubbed his seed onto her thighs, and she devoured his neck. Leaving great purple love bites, he intended to return the favor.

 

He grasped her supple cheeks and kneaded them, delighting in her moans. “Enter me my prince,” her voice was shrill and laced with want.

 

“Call me Aemon,” he aligned himself and began to push in. The moment his cockhead had penetrated her nether lips did she begin to tighten. His first stroke felt like he was pushing his bed but with his cock. “Gods,” he grunted. His second was open to him like the sea. Wet, impossibly soft, and tight, was all he could describe of Kojja’s core.

 

Her long nails dug into his back with every thrust, she gave as good he gave. Clenching and meeting him at the apex of every thrust. Soon enough they were milking each other. His rum and pleasure filled mind was too weary to say much else and rolled off. As his eyes closed, he faintly heard Kojja praying.

 

When he woke the next day, Kojja was gone to his sorrow.  _I haven’t felt this good in months_ , he sighed. He was not as prolific as Aegon, but he wasn’t celibate. Father and Uncle Ned would disagree with his actions, but once in a while he needed to feel something intimate. Father allows Aegon and Renly, _well_ , maybe not allows, tolerates their relationship. There’s no way he’s like to father a bastard on Renly.

 

Aemon rose with a snake writhing madly behind his eyes and the pain went to his ears and belly. He swiftly grabbed his chamber pot and retched into it. His bile felt and tasted like the spiced rum and the mutton they ate but coming up was way worse. The taste alone made him retch into his chamber pot again. He wallowed in disgust as the taste permeated his mouth and the smell his nose.

 

Though it did not last long, a ship boy brought him a nice cool cups of water and seawater to wash out the taste of bile. The boy left with the chamber pot and Aemon fell back to sleep. Dreaming of Kojja Mo, and her supple legs. He relieved the whole night of lovemaking, hoping her gods were satisfied.

 

The next time he woke, the smell wasn’t of salt and bile, but nightsoil, sweat, and plots, _home_ , King’s Landing. He packed his bags, and dressed in the court clothes he brought, no doubt he would be forced to appear in front of court and be praised for defeating the realm’s enemies.

 

He was given a nice red stallion and was escorted to the throne room and to be praised by the court, though hollow it seemed. Several smallfolk lined the streets and the Mud Gate, he waved to them and smiled. He like the validation of the smallfolk, he didn’t always want it or receive it but when it did happen, he welcomed it with a smile and an eased heart.

 

He dismounted outside the building that housed the Iron Throne, walking down the aisle was enough discomfiture, with the eyes of great and small lords, chivalrous knights and prosperous merchants watching him with envy or regard, or disregard. The king thanked him for his valiant service and was glad to know he was safe. He made a grand show of welcoming him home. Aemon smiled at the words knowing Jon Arryn had told father to say those words. There was a small smile on the king’s usual melancholic face in response to his sons smile. The small council seemed relieved the whole battle worked out fine. Varys in a silk brocade lied through his teeth about how happy he was Aemon was safe. _Though the men I lost families are not relieved, just grief ridden and angry_. Lord Stannis merely met Aemon’s gaze with a nod of approval. Aelor thinly smiled in relief. Rhaenys averted her eyes and wouldn’t meet his. Even when he gazed upon her. He couldn’t help but notice Cersei did not look pleased he survived battle.

 

After his return, the king called for the end of court. The sea of lords, ladies, and knights were breaking apart like a wave against a sea pillar or promontory.  

 

“There’s dinner tonight,” Aegon told him once court was disbanded. “Father has announcements and plots to run by us.”

 

“Oh great, it’s always enjoyable when we get together and have dinner.” Aemon grimaced. Family dinner was a twice or thrice a week occurrence where Rhaegar forces everyone to sit down and stare at each other. Some nights the conversations while stilted were amiable, the others were scathing quarrels between everyone till Rhaegar slammed his fist on the table and banished all to their rooms for separate chastisements. “When does father never plan?”

 

They shared a laugh before they were interrupted by Celia Blount, who needed to talk with Aegon privately and Aemon was not needed.

 

In fact, Aemon won’t be needed for a few hours, so he interrupted Maegon’s conversation with Lord Baelish, “Coz, I have need of your sword arm.” He had thoughts of men dying he wanted banished from his mind.

 

He complained of seeing Jeyne tonight, but Aemon hauled his ass to the inner courtyard outside Maegor’s Holdfast. There was already a crowd there, cheering and jeering on Ser Priam of Sable Lake with his greatsword against Ser Boros Blount and his cowardly shield. Him and Maegon stopped to watch Priam charge Boros into the ground. How the man ever desired to join the Kingsguard, Aemon didn’t know, he was weaker than Myrcella and her spindly arms.

 

With tourney swords in hand and sparsely armored here and there, Aemon and Maegon trained, while Gunter oversaw the match. Soon a crowd formed around them as well, hooting for Aemon to shove Maegon in the dirt, or vice versa. They usually came for the Kingsguard in the morning, but at night the knights, squires, and sometimes the princes dueled and trained.

 

Aemon felt his lungs soar and his arm glide through air. While shorter than Aemon by a few inches, Maegon was quicker and a tad bit stronger. They danced for hours it seemed like, back and forth, Aemon’s arm ached but he smiled. Maegon grinned cockily and daringly took a hit on his left arm and pushed forward with his right, knocking Aemon’s helm sideways.

 

Aemon scowled with difficulty trying to turn the dented helm so he could see out of it. He gave up after trying for a few minutes and tore it off. “Best of two out of three,” he declared. Realizing a bigger crowd had formed, and people were betting on the matches.

 

“I’ll win the next bout as well.” He replied a bit hoarsely rubbing the bruise forming on his left arm.

 

Before they could hack at each other again, Gunter brought him a new helm. “The king would kill me if you cracked your head for not having a helm.” Then the battle renewed, Maegon came all the harder this time. Attacking with gay abandon, laughing and smiling. His blonde beard split at every strike to display a smile. “You scared of dinner tonight?” His cut came too close to Aemon’s neck for his comfort. Aemon’s voice was tired, “Always am, you are lucky to never be forced to go to these things.”

 

“Aelor has dinners as well, coz.” Aemon parried another cut at his shin. “He’s just as worse, if not more. Somedays it’s only me and Maegelle there, Maelor would be out eating with the knights in the small hall or the great hall.” He panted for a breath as they clashed. When Aemon kicked him back the crowd cheered. “You think you’re going to marry soon?”

 

Aemon blinked in surprise, and narrowly avoided a hit to his shoulder, to the crowd’s disappointment and joy. “What brought this up? Have you heard something?”

 

Aemon then parried Maegon’s returning slash with a parry and drove his sword down to his cross guard and twisted. The sword went falling onto the ground. “Yield,” he demanded.

 

Maegon smiled slimy, “It seems while we were gone your marriage has been a source of constant conversation.” He bent to pick up the dropped sword as the throng gave Aemon a raucous welcoming for his win.

 

“Only mine?” he asked surprised.

 

“No, you, Aegon, and Rhaenys, and Joffrey in some conversations.” He got in position, “This shall be the last bout, I do have a long ride into the city to see my Jenny."

 

Two hours later, Aemon was dressed in a fine black satin tunic over white sandsilk trousers, wearing red wolf fur lined boots. His fine white silver hair was down to his shoulders, and he looked presentable even though he had a purple bruise reforming on his left cheek. Maegon had hit the exact spot where Aemon’s shield slammed into him on the _Hullbreaker_ with an elbow. The bruise was a sickeningly purple and yellow. He tried blocking it with his hair, but it wasn’t possible, his hair will move and sway no matter what and it will be visible. Might as well just let the bruise show and accept the consequences and questions. Maybe he should grow a beard like Maegon. Though the one time he did, it was queer, silver and brown hairs mixed in, and itched horribly.

 

Aemon may have cut out the bruise for the mocking and laughing he received from Aegon and Joffrey when he sat down at the long mahogany table. Even Cersei was smirking at his pain. On the table was eight plates piled with the choicest meat off a large pig from the Red Keep’s pig yard, served with beets cooked in the same pot as the chopped onions and corn, all this over the Valyrian delicacy rice. The rice was of Valyrian stock and taken with Aenar west, one of the few foodstuffs grown on the terraces Dragonstone. The crop needed volcanic soil and water to grow so Dragonstone was perfect place for it to grow, Aemon remembers his maester telling him. With an Arbor red to wash it down, though Tommen and Myrcella were given juice from apples.

 

“How was the battle Jon?” Tommen eagerly asked eating a spoonful of beets, onion, and rice.

 

He smiled, “Glorious.” _Though it was anything but_. “You should have seen Drak the Fang!” He leaned down to Tommen who sat beside him, with a play evil smirk. “He had true fangs and was as corrupted as a demon from the nine hells.”

 

Tommen shrieked. When he noticed half the table’s eyes upon him, he made a of show of being strong.  Though he still crossed his arms as if to protect himself. “Was not! He was a pirate not a demon!”

 

Aemon put a hand to his chest playing, “You wound me brother, you call me a liar.” He exasperated. “Who else but a demon could give me a wound like this,” he pointed to his cheek. Tommen laughed and Aemon felt warmth in his belly.

 

“A pity he wasn’t a strong demon,” Joffrey claimed. He was a handsome lad, with none of Tommen’s sweetness. His long blonde hair, so similar and dissimilar to his, Aegon’s, and Rhaenys’s always seem to shine in every light. His green eyes held contempt for all, even Myrcella and Tommen. Aemon will never understand his little brother, nor would he. “I heard he was the lowest of the corsairs in the Stepstones.”

 

“Oh, nobody cares about what you heard Joff.” Rhaenys remarks. Her voice is hoarse for a woman, many believe it sounds nice and Aemon is inclined to agree. Though half of what she says is hardly nice. “A pirate is a pirate.”

 

“Rhaenys,” Cersei chides, her green eyes narrowed. “I care Joff. Is there more you have heard?”

 

“No,” the boy sulks. “Only just wondering why the bastard had to go.”

 

Rhaegar finally speaks. His eyes are tired and there are bags under his eyes as if he doesn’t get enough sleep. Grandmother always said father was quiet but warm, that warm was gone by the time Aemon was summoned to court. Now he was as cold and solemn as a king of winter. “ _Aemon_ , was to go because unlike you and Aegon he doesn’t shun his lessons with the sword.”

 

“Hey,” Aegon smirks like he always knows something you don’t. “I’m a great archer. Not sure what Joff is.”

 

Joffrey turns red at the insinuation. Cersei stands up for him. “We wouldn’t want you to use your brain do we, Aegon?”

 

“Nice one Cersei…” Aegon retaliates, but Aemon attention is pulled to Myrcella.

 

“Aems,” she almost whispers, and her dark green eyes questioning. “Are you okay? That looks like it hurts.” She points to his bruise.

 

“I’ll be fine Cella, hurts to chew though.” He acted in great pain as he chewed on some meat. She giggled at his antics. By that time the other conversations ended and Rhaegar was speaking.

 

“I don’t care nor approve of these quarrels.” He eyed them all with unsurprised disappointment, he gazed upon Cersei the longest though. The servants took the food away while he continued. “While I love our family dinners, they remind me of my own never peaceful and full of quarrels. This isn’t why we are having one tonight.”

 

Rhaenys’s eyes are almost nervous? Anxious? She covers it up when she notices him staring. “What is going on father?”

 

“It’s time for you to know the futures I have planned for you. For the good of the realm and our family.”

 

“Futures? Why wasn’t I told?” Cersei demanded.

 

Rhaegar holds his hand up, “Your opinion was not needed Cersei.” Though it wasn’t humorous Aegon was giggling behind his cup. One look from father was enough to sober him up. “Aegon it is time for you to wed.”

 

Aegon’s smile fell fast. “Me?” he glanced at him and Rhaenys. “I thought this was…”

 

“You thought wrong. I have been patient and kind, no more. I am tired of the whoring and your _friend_ Renly.”

 

“Father…” Aegon tries, for once the perfect façade is failing. His eyes are a mixture of offended and pleading.

 

“You will marry Margaery Tyrell soon. After your sister and brother have wed.”

 

Rhaenys studies him. “Who am I to wed?” he asks fearing the answer. He would be happy if it was someone he knew, like his friend Sam’s sister Talla, or even Celia Blount with her pretty golden hair or Myrielle Lannister, she was kind in the royal family’s visit to Casterly Rock just earlier this year. Just someone he knew and could get along with.

 

“I thought I said it. You and Rhaenys,” Rhaegar sips his wine oblivious to the turmoil raging in Aemon. He turns his head to Rhaenys. Faintly realizing he is trembling. Rhaenys was certainly beautiful, with silver-gold hair and indigo eyes, bow-shaped lips. Her hips were curvaceous enough, she was small and beautiful, a true scion of Valyria. But he had never once looked at his sister in that way. It would be like marrying Myrcella. Never in his fifteen years of life had he imagined marrying Rhaenys. Father continues. “Are to wed. Your uncle Ned has requested you wed in Winterfell before the Stark’s heart…”

 

Aemon had tuned out his father, his heart was beating fast. He did not like this. He knew Rhaenys and he did not get along well on the best of days, same as him and Aegon. But she was his blood and if his king ordered him to marry her, he will, grateful or not. Confused? Yes, but he was raised to believe the king held the ultimate power and to respect that, to go against that was to go against his own morals.

 

“Are you listening to me boy?” Rhaegar questioned, his face was blank as if he was ruling in court. “You should be grateful; this is the highest honor not afforded to everyone.”

 

So, he said, “Yes, of course. Thank you, father.” A forced smile plastered on his face. _I wish I could have stayed with Kojja on the_ Hullbreaker  _forever_.  _Is she thinking of me too_? Aemon wonders. “I am grateful for this honor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly wanted to start over and write Stormbringer better because I felt it wasn't leading up to my expectations, but now I am glad I didn't. While I want to go back and change things, I feel that this story is hard to write, because this is my first romance/political fan fiction and it is long, so i have zero experience with this kind of thing. 
> 
> Though I am able to keep writing because of comments saying a chapter is well written, or they like the concept, so thank you all for the support!
> 
> Comments are great o read, thank you all.


	11. The Calm Before the Storm: Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick notes, I want to let my readers now that from this point on chapters are not in chronological order, same as in the books. 
> 
> And I would like to give you a list of all the POV characters I have built the story around, the list is and can be subject to change:  
> Aemon Targaryen, Rhaenys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister, Bryce Caron, Eddard Stark, Arya Stark, Sansa Stark, Bran Stark, Richard Lonmouth, Jon Connington, Harras Harlaw, Catelyn Tully Stark, Margaery Tyrell, Jaime Lannister, Cersei Lannister, Brynden Tully, Daenerys Targaryen, and Rhaella Targaryen.

 

The Silver Maiden

Rhaenys Targaryen released a wordless grunt of discomfiture as Maegelle tugged on the strings of her corset. Rhaenys had long grown accustomed to Valyrian robe dresses and gowns of spider silk. With the long sleeves, and flowing endings, with enough room for the heat and sun to not be uncomfortable to her. The loose but fitting cut of the dresses did not require corsets. But today she needed to show off her femininity.

 

“You must look pretty for the prince when you speak,” her cousin said. “Ollerus loves it when I wear my corset tight and my breasts are puffed up. And Aemon is a man, he is bound to like it.”

 

Maegelle was of the same age as Rhaenys. While they were close, she did not believe they were as close as Maegon and Aemon. Where Rhaenys was the Silver Maiden, a prude to all, Maegelle was more outgoing and loved to have a good time and be pleasured, and how to take it when she wanted it. Her dark eyes of the darkest blue she had ever seen and gold hair with silver strands and heart-shaped face with Valyrian features allowed her to mesmerize any suitor and knight. Which she knew and used.

 

“I want to able to at least talk,” she complained, as Nessaria and Valeria put the dress on her over her head. Maegelle didn’t tighten these laces as tight. “I can’t believe you are,” she searched for the word, “playing with that dimwit of Joffrey’s friend.” Talla dabbed perfume on her as softly as a ghost.

 

“Why he is tall, he has silver-gold hair, and is an anointed knight. And he is most skilled at _sex_.”

 

Talla recoiled scandalized, Nessaria laughed. “He most certainly is.” Talla’s face was as red as Rhaenys’s.

 

“You too Nessaria?” Rhaenys asked perplexed.

 

“Waiting for a fool to sweep me off my feet is as boring as lessons,” she and Maegelle shared devious smiles.

 

“But you are to wed in the fortnight,” Talla said scandalous. “Your father and siblings have just arrived with Viserys two nights ago!”

 

Rhaenys certainly didn’t forget about the wedding, even if Nessaria wants to put as far from her mind as possible. The influx of Volantene and her uncle’s household has made the last few days unbearable. On top of the fact she was engaged to her brother.

 

She shivers remembering seeing Viserys for the first time in almost two years, too short of a time. He was as beautiful as Egg and Aems, but he lacked the luster and the rationality they possessed. His silver hair was long to his shoulders, and purple eyes feverish, his limbs spindly and wiry. The sword at his hip was as useful as a whore in a septon’s bed.

 

“Sweet Rhae, how long it’s been!” He wrapped her in a too long hug.

 

“Viserys, long time. How are you?” She didn’t really care but she remembered her courtesies.

 

He smiled, “Great, actually.” His eyes shone. “I have a proposal to run by my brother. I am going to be his envoy in Tyrosh, to help transition Kastaris’s plans.”

 

 _Oh joy_ … “You are?” Slight disbelief in her voice.

 

His smile faltered. “Yes, Rhaegar and I have corresponded. He says once I wed my elephant bride, I will be given a greater position at court then castellan of Dragonstone.”

 

She only smiled and bid him a good day. She knew court was to be ablaze in Viserys’s rants and curses once he learns Rhaegar plans to give that position to Ser Renly Baratheon. Her mind returned to the present as Nessaria and Maegelle tried to make Talla and Allyria blush the reddest they could. On Allyria it was cute and dazzling, but Talla’s blush behind a faint splattering was hideous. It made her looked flush and sick and overall boiling in her own skin.

 

“That’s quite enough, Talla can’t take anymore,” she ordered. “And you Maegelle, for how much you say you’re different, you act just like your brothers, well not baby Maelor.”

 

Maegelle’s face slacked in anger. She grabbed the comb Allyria was running through Rhaenys’s silver curls and pulled hard on a knot. Her head whipped back so fast it felt like her head would be torn off her shoulders. Rhaenys shrieked in surprise and pain. “Take that back!”

 

Rhaenys twisted and pushed her, “No. If you like having sex with him, marry him! You’ve already had Aegon, are you going to take Aemon too!”

 

The air was thick with tension. “I am not like Aeryk or Maegon,” her voice was dripping in condescension, for her brothers or Rhaenys, she did not know. “I will be the greatest lady of Sable Lake.” Her voice softened then. “Do you truly think that low of me?”

 

Rhaenys grimaced, “No, not truly.” She sat in a chair. “I’m sorry, I am very nervous about this.” She pulled the comb out. “This is the first time we will be speaking as betrotheds. And I haven’t been the best older sister.” Allyria began to braid her hair silently and somberly.

 

That was an understatement, she had not been the best older sister for anyone if she was honest. She should have helped Aegon be a better person. Now he was indifferent to the throne and ruling. He wants it for sure, but Rhaenys wasn’t sure if he wanted it because he was raised knowing it was his birthright or because he genuinely has goals to accomplish with the power.

 

He certainly could deserve it if he worked toward it, but it seems he is running from his desire and responsibility.

 

And Aemon, she had scorned him for most of his early life. Only when he returned to court a few years ago did their relationship become more than cordial. Mostly because he had shown such competence in helping her out in some court situations. Though he never understood what those plays meant. Now he did the most, he had fought a pirate who used to be a ‘king’ of an island in the Stepstones. Ser Morland hailed Aemon as the Demon of the Gullet. Though it seemed that title would be more fitting than his friend Corliss Carrick’s new moniker. The young man had killed ten pirates himself, earning him the name Hoary Cory, for his demeanor and ability.

 

Joffrey was well blessed to not be mentioned. There was something wrong with the boy. He had a cruel glint, Viserys never showed under his feverish stupidity.

 

She summoned the courage of the dragon, even if she did not feel like one. She had the looks and temperament of one, but today the fire raging in her was gone. Whether it was the tight, unusual corset, or Rhaenys entering unfamiliar territory.

 

Her ladies fell into formation behind her as they left her chambers. Ser Oswell Whent greeted them with a slight questioning look and a dark jape. “Any later and I feared you had run,” he complained as he led them, eyes searching and watching for all danger.

 

“Ser, do you have any idea of where my brother is?” Rhaenys asked innocently.

 

He turned from observing the passing servants and ladies, “Which one? Planning on being bothersome to them? Let me help.” His grin was dark and promising.

 

She smiled at him, she missed the days he could pick her up and carry her to and fro. When Rhaenys was younger she was different, happy and full of energy. When her world was her father, mother, grandparents, and Egg, and a few corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast. Every new person was a new adventure and puzzle, till she learned strangers were just as dangerous as night terrors.

 

“I’m to see Prince Aemon,” she declared. Oswell scrunched up his face in contemplation, a few lords and ladies, bowing and showing the customary courtesy of a princess and small council member, were just as shocked.

 

“Any reason why,” Oswell asked as he opened the big, red and black double doors leading to the bridge that was the only way to cross the deep and spike riddled, dry moat surrounding Maegor’s Holdfast.

 

“I’m to marry him,” she decided to let the answer go freely. Soon all would know at the opening feast to Viserys and Nessaria’s wedding in a few days. A few calls of propriety rain from Talla and Allyria, her more traditional and court minded ladies.

 

Oswell nodded at Ser Balon who was the Kingsguard on duty at the entrance to Maegor’s Holdfast. The tourney knight turned highest title a knight can receive barely acknowledged her, but she felt his eyes boring into her from behind. _A Cersei spy, he will run to deliver this information, never knowing she already knew._ But as she walked away, Rhaenys mentally slapped herself. She should have said something only she would know, so when Cersei learned her spy would be ousted. Then she could’ve moved against him.

 

This whole affair with marriages has caused her too many headaches and taken her off her own game. Not to mention she had been writing letters herself to many coastal lords off the Narrow Sea, they needed all the eyes on the south. Focusing on the Stepstones and her impending marriage has left her presence at court minimal. She only hoped her more untrustworthy and weaker allies were still hers, and not Cersei’s or any other players.

 

The Stepstones were embroiled in a status quo changing war and soon that will spread to her mother’s homeland. Not known to many outside the royal family and the highest Dornish lords, since time immemorial Dorne and the Stepstones have been tangled in a mutual financial arrangement. During the years of conflict between the ‘Six Kingdoms’ and the Princedom of Dorne, they relied on the trade and money generated by that relationship to survive the years of devastation from dragons and hundreds of invading armies.

 

 _I have done all I can, Uncle Doran has read my letter and responded, he will do what is best for Dorne, as I will do for the Seven Kingdoms._ “He is visiting the Hand of the King and Prince Aelor,” Oswell said remembering the briefing from earlier in the day at midday.

 

Involuntarily, she frowned. She liked the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, but she certainly didn’t wish to see a sick man. Having fallen sick not even an hour after Viserys and his household presented themselves in court. Wasting away, speaking nonsense was what father had despaired when out to question by Lord Stannis. An antsy Stannis at that, an unfamiliar sight to see the Lord of Storm’s End so anxious.

 

With the Red Keep full of wedding guests for the wedding treading through the press of knights training and their onlookers, or people conversing took a long time. Luckily for Rhaenys, most of the guests were from Volantis and the Free Cities and barely knew her. And had no reason to flatter her to curry favor.

 

Curiously the Tower of the Hand was less crowded. A few guards stood outside in Arryn and Targaryen livery. Ser Vardis Egen and Ser Alliser Throne, captains of their respective guards, let them through with zero fuss or questions.

 

“Stay outside, or wander,” she told her ladies. This was her own battle to fight. Oswell followed with the tension of a guard, pure white plate armor clinking at every step. They found Aemon kneeling by the bedside of Jon Arryn. As routine the Hand was whispering incoherent things. “The seed is strong… The eyes… The shape… The seed is strong…” He would mutter them as if it was a mantra to father, Aelor, his wife, and anybody who was in the room.

 

If she didn’t know better, he was trying to tell them all something. Though that wasn’t the reason she was here. “Princess Rhaenys,” Oswell announces into the damp solar, smelling of medicine and death.

 

Aemon and Aelor looked up sharply at the disturbance. Aemon took one glance at her and seemed to know here reasoning. He was observant like that. His grey eyes watched her like a hawk, or better yet a wolf. “Sister,” he greeted, though it was an unsure greeting. “Give me a moment with Lord Arryn fore he passes.”

 

She nods and walks past him to the door leading to the Hand’s solar. The room is more spacious than her own solar. This room was built by and for Alyn Stokeworth, a man of large potential as hand, and an even larger ambition. Compared to her chambers which were originally Prince Aenys’s rooms, this was not as decorated. Her chambers were decorated with blue and silver dragons, portraits of the Conqueror and his sister-wives, but a small man, nonetheless. Aenys’s bed rooms are the largest beside the king and queen, but as a scholar he failed, and so his solar size was diminished for more space in his bed room and welcoming chamber.

 

As a lover of history, seeing the solar not in the colors or style depicted in Maester Ornifex’s the _Red Keep and its Interior_ was fascinating. Ornifex wrote of bookcases containing a tenth of the space they were built for and portraits of legendary Stokeworth heroes and the Conqueror, later on a portrait of Aenys was added as well. Lord Tywin’s tenure saw the whole solar reworked into a display of Lannister wealth and power, but with a chilling effect. An effect meant to intimidate. From the gilded stone lions flanking the doors and desk. To the chair of red velvet, straight-backed and strong.

 

But Lord Arryn’s solar was peaceful, blue and milk-white pieces of fabric covered everything, and the desk was not as large and noble and opulent as Tywin’s. In fact, it was perfect for a reading desk, the way the sunlight would filter through the window and the chair of red velvet, it was so soft and lenient it was almost a couch. And unlike Alyn Stokeworth, his bookcase was full of accounts, tomes, and reports. She found an interesting looking one, larger and wider than the others.

 

It weighed heavier than her whole body she was sure, but Rhaenys had strength in her arms. But she still ordered Oswell to help her. It was huge she had noticed before, although I front of her it was as wide as her waist and as long as her arm. Rhaenys would have never lifted the tome herself.

 

The encyclopedia was written by Maester Malleon, the name was new to her. Malleon obviously had to work on this for a very, very long time. _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children_ , was the long, lengthy, and unending title. A page was bookmarked, and Rhaenys opened to it. The last house was her own, house Targaryen. From Maekar I and his family to her own, ending in Tommen, the writing for Tommen looked familiar. In Maester Pycelle’s own shaky and old hand.

 

“Born with the whitest-blonde hair, and pale green eyes,” she hummed, the paragraph above was Myrcella’s. “Born with silver-blonde hair and green eyes, hair matured to a darker blonde.” Rhaenys did not know Myrcella had hair close to her, Egg, and Aems at birth.

 

She caught herself then, why does she always assume the three children by Cersei and the older three as separate groups. No matter how much she hates them they were family. She continued reading, “Joffrey Targaryen, the boy came sprawling into the world glorious and as strong as a lion, lungs full of vigor. Blonde of hair and green of eye.” Something wasn’t right, she felt it in her bones, like the chills she gets when the weather changes. She hurriedly flipped through the Sable Lake births to her, Egg, and Aems page. She couldn’t help but notice a pattern with eye colors, all of Aelor’s children have some shade of dark blue, no matter what. From the darkest like Maegelle’s to the bright of Aeryk’s. All blue. Her eyes were and are indigo, Aegon’s a purple-blue, and Aemon a silver grey with flecks of purple.

 

A part of her felt relieved and unease that Aemon did not share the same eye color as her and Aegon, _but I knew that already_. She decided to study her family’s descriptions from Aenar to Aerys II.

 

“What’s that?”

 

The question was innocent but still it made her startle. “Aemon,” she gasped. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

 

He had the grace to look abashed, “I came in two minutes ago and called your name. Sorry for disturbing you, sister.” He seemed to come to a crossroad in how to interact with her.

 

“Nothing your feeble brain will understand, Demon,” she said of the book, reminding herself, she gave a quirk of a smile to show she wasn’t being rude.

 

He sighed showing his distaste for the sobriquet, but when she straightened from being hunched over his eyes followed her chest. A look of hunger came over them before they glazed over in thought. “What did you need?” He sat across from her.

 

“Our marriage,” she blurted, the mere thought of him looking at her with hunger made her flush.

 

“That was quick thought we would ease into the conversation.”

 

“Why would we do that? We can get this done and be on our merry way.”

 

“So, it wouldn’t be so awkward,” he pointed out.

 

“It’s not awkward,” but her right leg was twitching, and her court smile was fading. Not only that Aemon knew it was a false smile.

 

The quiet after was stifling. Her face finally cooled when Aemon glanced at the huge tome in front of her. “So, what is that? Looks suspiciously like reports.” Rhaenys had to smile, for as much as Aemon did his duty when ordered, he never liked when father forced him to help Uncle Aelor with reports and accounts, which was once a week at most.

 

“An unnecessary book made by Maester Malleon,” she mocked. “Descriptions of every member of every great house in Westeros from Maekar I to now.”

 

He sank down into the chair opposite her on the other end of the desk. His silver hair had been cut recently, from shoulder length to ear length, but the curls made it impossible to tell how long it should be. His grey eyes watched her with a solemn grace, and his long, chiseled jaw was set in tension, the only sign he was uncomfortable as her. “Is that enough conversation for you?” She asked.

 

“There could be more,” he reached for the jug of water and poured two cups. Handing one to her he took a short sip.

 

She grew tired of her short words and his. They needed to speak, and there was no way to beat around the bush with this. “There could always be more, Aemon. But we have the rest of our lives to speak.” Her tone was biting, she knew, but better to get this over with. “The seven only know why father arranged this for us. Maybe tradition. Maybe he wants the blood to stay pure. Or you might be the only man I cannot scare away. But this has been arranged, grandmother, father, and your uncle have planned everything.

 

“After Viserys weds we will be wed at Winterfell.” She takes a longer sip of the water, and searches for the wine. _Surely the hand would have some wine,_ she thought.

 

“And you are fine with this?” Aemon’s voice was warm, as warm as could be. He seemed to genuinely care.

 

“My wants do not matter here. The king has ordered this.” On the meeting table was a flagon of wine, Rhaenys stood and poured her a cup. “Would you like some?”

 

He shook his head. “No, I have to train with Gunter and Arthur shortly.”

 

“Right,” she walked back to the desk and sat down. “And even if I disagreed with this wedding, who would I marry, some great lord’s son, a minor lord. A person I would never have met. This is father’s last option for me before he finds a husband who I have no choice to marry.” _I will never crawl to my father to break a betrothal; all my credibility would be gone_.

 

“That’s not true, Rhaegar is king but he has always indulged you.”

 

“Indulged?” She laughed, and her eyes watered in memory. “No. He feels guilty is all, nothing more. Same as with you. He kept you away for twelve years because he feels guilty about your mother and the thousands who died to bring you into this world.”

 

Aems mouth tightened. “The war wasn’t about that Rhaenys.”

 

“Are you sure,” her voice is dripping in disdain. “I wonder did grandmother teach you anything except for how to hold a sword.”

 

Now his eyes were molten silver, dark and foreboding. “Leave her out of this. This is about me and you.”

 

“Our dear grandmother, the widow of the Mad King. You know I have only seen her a handful of times since the end of the war.”

 

“She was busy reconciling the Stormlands for father.”

 

“How I missed a grandmother’s love, like a mother’s love. You know you stole both of those away from me bastard.”

 

Now he was truly angry, and she watched with a guilty pleasure of getting under his skin as he stood. Those hands inched towards a fist. “What is wrong with you?”

 

“I’m just bitter, a bitter princess. Broken and loveless, Aemon. You are a bastard with thousands of people’s blood on your birthing bed. Including your mother’s and mine. We are perfect for each other.” She watched his fist tighten. _Yes, do it, get angrier_. His frown deepened, and his anger was felt like a sailor can feel a storm coming.

 

Then as if a water drops the building of tension left.

 

His eyes narrowed. “I see what you are trying to do. And it’s not working Rhaenys.” He walked around the desk to stand over her. “You are trying to piss me off, trying to call off this marriage. Well, it’s not going to happen. Nothing will stop this, when Rhaegar gets an idea in his head nothing can stop him.”

 

She stood as well, uncomfortable with being in a position of weakness. “When did you get so smart? Did the corsairs cuff your head?” She laughed unkindly. He was taller than her, in fact he towered over way her. Aemon was the tallest in the family, taller than Aegon and father. His solid lean build accentuated it more. At least six feet three inches, while she was meager five feet four inches.

 

Though the difference in height was severe, for some reason his head was close to hers. Or maybe it was the way they were standing, close and full of loathing. “We should work together at least. If we don’t get along it won’t be to first marriage to do so. Look at Rhaegar and Cersei.”

 

“They have never gotten along. One of father’s many mistakes.” His eyes weren’t as dark in anger anymore, in fact the closer they got the more the anger dissipated and was clouded in something else. Something new and unfamiliar to Rhaenys. Indifference? No, she had seen the look on Egg numerous times before. This was something new. “I agree though. We should try to be cordial at least.”

 

“How,” Aemon asked, he was so close she could feel his breath on her forehead, blowing a few strands of loose silver-gold hair from her braids.

 

“I don’t know. We don’t exactly have experience of peaceful conversations.”

 

He smiled. “Whose fault is that.”

 

She smiled back. “Yours of course. Your face makes me say all types of things.”

 

“My face? I thought it was my presence. Or even yet my existence.”

 

“Those all are the things I think about when I see your face.” The laughter was loud and unbecoming, but they both let the tension leave their bodies. His hand shot up and caressed her shoulder. Her body leaned into it, but her mind rejected it. Her body did not listen, it sought the comfort and warmth. _Have I been so long without human affection?_

 

The hand slowly traveled to her collar bone, then neck, then jaw and the back of her neck. His head was closer than before. Almost as if they were closer in height. His breath smelled of mint, cloves, and a hint of a lemon. The usual cleaning teeth concoction he must use. Her mind was blank. For once her mother’s last moments were not replaying in her conscience as it does when being close to a man.

 

Perhaps father chose Aemon for this purpose. Not for tradition, or fear of rejection, or any other motives her mind contrived to make this union make sense. Father chose him for one reason. She could be comfortable for once in her life. Her old wound did not ache, and all thoughts of rape and death and fire was gone.

 

Her body seemed to have already known what her mind struggled to affirm once he touched her. Now once her mind caught up, she moved in tandem with Aemon. A brush of lips connecting, just a second of contact and all seemed right.

 

Before they could connect more a scream rang out in the tower. They pulled apart as if stricken. Aemon apologized for his actions before running into the chambers of the hand. She followed shortly after regaining control of her senses.

 

In the huge bed of Lord Arryn laid a small and emancipated man who used to stand strong and proud with honor. His right arm was reaching out to Uncle Aelor, and mouth agape. His wife Lysa sat unmoving, and a maid with a broken flagon around her feet had to be the source of the scream.

 

“May his soul rest in peace,” she spoke into the now silent room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter we will see the North and the Stepstones.


	12. Update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead

Sorry to any readers hoping this was a new chapter, and to ease the fears of others, this is not me saying I am done writing this story. I have been on vacation for almost a month and getting back into the groove of working and writing has been very hard. I promised a reader a chapter yesterday, but that hasn't happened obviously. I am half way done writing the chapter and once my beta proofreads it, I will post it. 

 

Look for the update sometime this week and at the latest next week. I hope to get back to my posting speed of at least one or two chapters a week, though since I have been on vacation work has been up my ass. 

 

The next chapter features a new chapter in the same current arc, we will see JonCon and Sansa, then the next chapters we will see the aftermath of Jon Arryn's death, and soon the plotting of Petyr Baelish and his group of marauders.


	13. The Bloodbath and the She-Wolves: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We go to the Stepstones and see the end of the Golden Company's campaign to defeat the pirates for Tyrosh, and we see the first Stark pov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not confident about this chapter, hence why it took me almost three months to write. 
> 
> Remember these chapters aren't in chronological order anymore, so if events are mentioned they will be explained in more detail elsewhere.
> 
> Also this takes place in 300 AC, just so she character can be older. And is an ASOIAF fan fiction with some ideas from the earlier seasons of GOT woven in.

* * *

 

The Father 

For once Jon felt the ache in his bones from old age. The creak and groan. Lately he has forgotten how old he is. Many don’t live this long, but Jon had to. He’s revenge wasn’t complete. Tywin, Cersei, Houses Morrigen and Penrose, and especially _his_ Silver Prince.

 

If there was any love there, any between them, him and Rhaegar, even a sliver of friendship, Rhaegar would have used his power to absolve Jon of all his actions. Jon remembered the doubtful but angry glaze in his eyes that day. The way Jon’s knees hurt for kneeling so long.

 

Sure, he had planned a few unsavory tactics to propel himself to Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. But he never went through with them. Rhaegar ordered him to stand down, being a traditionalist Rhaegar was against any other houses than the eight great houses ruling as lord paramounts.

 

Jon was loyal and would die for his king, die for _his_ Rhaegar. But his king wouldn’t die for him. _And that made me cry in anger and helplessness_.

 

Light flittered through the opening of Jon’s pavilion, with it a strong, queer wet and dry wind common to the arid Stepstones. The arid wind from the islands dry mountain peaks combined with the cool and wet ocean spray wind. Pleasant in the morning, but by mid-day would have everyone sweltering, even the veterans from the Disputed Lands, which interior regions had become a virtual desert battleground.

 

The wind did a good thing now for once, it blew and swirled in his tent taking the scent of sex with it.

 

Jon wrinkled his nose. Ashamed and emasculated was the main feelings Jon got whenever he and Mortin did their dance. Mortin wasn’t Rhaegar, not by a longshot. His brown hair was cut short as a warrior, his nose wasn’t aquiline or beautiful, in fact it had been broken thrice. And his beard was covered in a thick, sharp stubble nowhere close to clean-shaven. And yet Jon felt more for the man than he can recall feeling for Rhaegar. _Perhaps because he returns my affections, if limitedly_.

 

If limitedly means Mortin has a daughter and wife back at the Junkfort. The Golden Company’s castle-manse on Bluestone, just south of Tyrosh. And sellswords were usually not as open to these type of relationships, seven hells no one was. _Sellswords allow boys to be fucked by grown men, but not grown men to fuck each other_. It was a strange world he lived in, especially when he didn’t understand his attraction to men.

 

The customary horn of the change of hour blew his thoughts away like the wind did the smell of sex. He glanced back at the crumpled bed where Mortin laid not even ten minutes ago. He needed to attend the council.

 

Outside the encampment of the Golden Company was arrayed in orderly fashion around the less orderly camps of their allies. They were surrounding the last holdout of the Stepstones. The strongest ‘king’, whose power and wealth could rival a real king. Goranio Iranyrion, the Iron Rhino. He was a huge Lyseni, near seven feet tall, had gold hair and eyes that appear to be as black as night. Born and raised in the Basilisk Isles as a slave, he turned against his master who happened to be a powerful pirate there. By killing his master, he gained the respect and loyalty of his crew. He built the strongest ships the Isles had ever seen and ravaged his rivals, before they formed a coalition and drove him out.

 

But Goranio was not deterred, after serving three years as a sellsail, he sailed to the Stepstones and subjugated all the pirates after killing and defeating the Old Man of the Fort. The Old Man was the first pirate after the War of the Ninepenny Kings to take over Greatstone, the location of the ancient and formidable ringfort Greatfort. Now Goranio lives there and hadn’t been idle, the gates were barred. The ancient ringfort walls were supplemented by a large wooden palisade behind it, and behind that a twenty-foot high enclosing stone wall. Along with a great ravine like moat surrounded the whole fort. All guarding the entrance into the mountain where the ancient First Men keep was held.

 

Jon Knew all of this for in his first years as a sellsword in the Golden Company he fought against the Old Man of the Fort alongside three other sellsword companies for Tyrosh and Lys. Before even with the wooden palisade, they had been beaten back and the siege lasted three months before the magisters convened to talk over their next course of action.

 

The Lyseni sent an envoy with a message to the Old Man to serve as their privateer or sellsail, the same day the Tyroshi sent an envoy with the same message. Soon the Golden company was fighting the other three sellsword companies on behalf of Tyrosh. Goranio was a sellsail for Lys then, and Jon had encountered him numerous times in the short Sixty-sixth Tyroshi-Lyseni War.

 

Jon sighed as he watched the pirates walk the ringfort and the newer stone walls. One of the wooden towers had a scorpion raised and aimed at them. “A scorpion to take down a dragon,” Mortin had commented. It was an insult and overall a waste of time. After taking Bloodstone, the captains and Harry Strickland decided to cement their alliance with the Tyroshi, but Goranio had captured one of the patrolling galleys of the Tyrosh. Who happened to be on the galley? None other than a son of one of Othone’s closest and strongest ally Orarion Vitalis’s son Matennio Vitalis.

 

Now Jon’s bones ached from the long siege with conditions he hadn’t lived in since he was boy at Duskendale.

 

“What is the situation,” Jon called into the command tent as he moved the flap out the way and was surprised to see only Daemon and Rhogoro there.

 

“Jon!” Daemon jumped to his feet, smiling. “Great news!”

 

Jon was taken aback by Daemon’s glee, for the last fortnight he had been raging against all his captains for the time wasted here. He had bested Duck in numerous fights in anger which left Rolly bruised and eager for rematch after another. Jon had Rhogoro making sure Daemon wasn’t getting into the camp followers, the pox or flux have killed lesser and less important kings than Daemon.

 

“What is the news? Where are the commanders?” Jon walked to his foster son.

 

Daemon held out a missive, written in the Spider’s hand. “The marriage night to Prince Viserys and Lady Nessaria went not as smoothly as they wanted,” Daemon thrusted it into his hands.

 

Jon was not surprised, he knew Viserys would be mad, but to call out his whole bride’s family in a drunken stupor before bedding his wife. You only read about this in history books. “This is fantastic news; we are already courting Lord Castilon Venigar to turn to our side. Now we have another selling point. This is great news.”

 

He glanced at the table and noticed it was set for dinner. “My king, what is going on?” He looked repentant. “Daemon,” Jon drawled.

 

Daemon stood straight like a king, sat in the chair and waved at Rhogoro. If Jon wasn’t angry to be pushed aside like this than he would be proud of his king. A king answers to no one. Though that petulant look in his boy’s eyes screamed in Jon’s mind, _my champion… my champion shall be fire!_

 

Jon vigorously shook those thoughts away as Rhogoro explained. “The king has decided that attacking Goranio’s fortress to be not in our favor has declared for a truce meeting,” the mini-Robert finished.

 

“When?”

 

Daemon pointed at the flap, “Now.”

 

Goranio and three of his pirates alongside Aegor, Harry, and Robert entered the command tent. The pirate on the left with the flat-topped great helm seemed familiar in the way he stood, but Jon took it for a warrior of Goranio’s he met years ago. Jon took a seat at Daemon’s right hand while Rhogoro stood standing like a dark Kingsguard. Goranio took his place at the other head of the table.

 

Even sitting the Iron Rhino was a big man, taller than Robert, maybe taller than Sandor, Jon estimated close to seven feet tall. His blonde hair had gone to white in age though, and he had more crow’s feet than before, he still bore the markings of a harsh life as a slave in the Basilisk isles. Two lash scars on his right cheek had gone silver in time.

 

“Jon Connington,” Goranio greeted. “Your hair has started to go as white as mine.”

 

“My wits and sword arm are still sharp,” he replied.

 

“I see,” his voice boomed like Robert’s. “Smart enough to gain the Tyroshi as a true ally. I left your golden Junkfort alone for years and this is how you repay me? Besieging my Greatfort?”

“We’re all here now,” Harry placated Goranio.

 

Aegor unbuckled his sword belt and placed it by his chair. “Still carrying that old sword Blacksteel,” Goranio nodded his head at Aegor.

 

“Till Daemon is worthy enough. Till then I wield it and will be the first through the breach in your gates.”

 

“The black blood of bastards still flows in your veins I see,” Goranio retorted.

 

Daemon looked cross but held back Rhogoro’s advancing step. “Daeron was the bastard.”

 

“Was he? I’m not Westerosi, but even Essosi doubt your claim, even the Tyroshi you worked so hard to get into bed with.” He pulled of a leg off the chicken in the center. “How many rebellions have your ancestors lost? Five? Ten?”

 

Daemon seemed to anticipate that line of questioning. Jon while still mad about not being told about these new plans couldn’t help but be proud.

 

“They never had an inside man with as much power as mine does, Goranio.”

 

“Wars aren’t fought in court, but with swords.”

 

“Tell that too Alequo Adarys, Maegor I, and Aerys II the Mad King. All lost to their mishandling of those around them.”

 

“Bah,” he flicked a hand, and grabbed a chalice with a greasy hand. “We can blabber all day about flowery words smelling of shite. What do you want boy?”

 

“You,” he pointed.

 

Goranio was almost disgusted. “Don’t swing that way like your man here,” he sent a pointed look at Jon. Aegor’s hand on his shoulder held him back. “Nor am I for sell, like your Gilded Company.”

 

“I wouldn’t dare to presume so, but I must ask you to apologize to Jon here,” Daemon asked but ordered.

 

“Can’t change what a man is, but sincere forgiveness ser,” Goranio smiled, a piece of chicken in his gap. Jon felt Robert was too quiet, just eating and drinking like normal, but without the boisterousness of usual.

 

“Thank you, goodman,” Daemon rose and poured Goranio another cup of wine. “I like your ships, all sixty of them, twenty of which are big-bellied galleasses inspired by Qartheen galleasses, am I correct?”

 

“That you are king,” Goranio studied him.

 

“How much for them?”

 

Goranio sputtered his drink, “Not for sale.”

 

“Sorry to hear that I need them to sail my army across the Narrow Sea, you see.” Daemon sat down again. “Your old, about fifty, yes. How many years left? Not many I assume. Your castle will fall Goranio, you can be sure of that, you will fall. Will your sons and grandsons be as difficult to come to terms with as you are?”

 

“You little insolent brat,” Goranio stood and his pirates surrounded him. He almost drew his steel. But that would make Goranio the offender of guest right, Robert almost looked disappointed he didn’t.

 

“Not a brat, a king,” Jon said.

 

“Shut up pillow bitter,” Goranio yelled.

 

“Sit down Goranio, the chicken will go cold,” Aegor said with another hand on Jon’s shoulder.

 

As he began to sit down his pirates drew their swords and stabbed him in the back so hard it punched through the cuirass under his tunic. Goranio died instantly.

 

Jon stood so fast he practically jumped to his feet, “Traitors!” He drew his sword as well as Aegor, and Harry. Only Robert, the king, and Rhogoro didn’t move. “Your grace?”

 

“Seven hells, that castle has no exposure, the smell of shit is imprinted on my nose,” Ronnal Baratheon removed his flat-topped great helm.

 

“Ronnal?” Harry squeaked out.

 

“The only one killer of Elia Martell.”

 

“I thought you were at the Junkfort,” Aegor gritted his teeth.

 

“King Daemon needed a man with special talents to end this siege Blacksteel.” He knelt before the king and pointed to the other two pirates. “Those two are Hayde Demonrunner, the greatest sailor to dodge ten Volantene patrols, and Sallor Sorrios, the ugliest but smartest fucker I’ve met.”

 

Daemon nodded at them, “Well met,” he stared down Ronnal. “Is it ours?”

 

“As soon as we left Sallor’s men killed Goranio’s most loyal men, I’m sure they will be flying the white flag and lowering the bridge soon your grace.”

 

“You shall have your prize of Goranio’s granddaughters, Ronnal. Your family has served me well lately.”

 

Ronnal bowed his head and smiled. Robert roared a cheer and demanded Daemon to let him lead a force to help quell the Greatfort. Daemon acquiesced and Robert marched out the tent with Sallor and Hayde is each hand.

 

Ronnal and Rhogoro left soon after with Harry about a small payment to Hayde. Jon and Aegor both turned sharp stares on Daemon.

 

“Do you know what you’ve done boy?”

 

His face split in anger, “Haven’t been a boy in years Jon!”

 

“Obviously,” Aegor scowled. “Siding with the Baratheons?! Are you mad?”

 

“Rhogoro is my friend, and soon a Kingsguard, I won’t have you badmouthing his family!”

 

“A Kingsguard?! Boy-“ Daemon threw his cup on the table shattering it.

 

“Call me a _boy_ one more time Jon and I swear I will have your head, raised me or not.” His tone delved into the tone of Aerys II, and images poured into Jon’s head. _I don’t want to see a flick of your blonde hair you-, You couldn’t find one measly boy, he’s six and five feet tall, you fucking idiot, I should have you burned-_

 

“The Baratheons cannot be trusted! They want the throne as much as you. Ronnal would kill you and skull fuck your corpse if it gave Robert the throne. Once your uses are up.”

 

“You don’t know them Aegor, Rhogoro is as loyal as a bloodrider, Robert just wants to smash Rhaegar’s head into dust, same as we! What’s so wrong about them?”

 

Jon finally recovered from his dark memories, “For in the eyes of Westeros Rhogoro has a stronger claim to the throne than you. He’s descended from Aegon V and he’s a half-Dothraki bastard!”

 

Daemon’s eyes turned red in the sunset light filtering through the flap of the tent, “Get out,” he pointed. “I don’t want to see the either of you till we get to Tyrosh.” Jon and Aegor followed his orders, “Take the Iron Rhino too, he stinks.”

 

 

* * *

 

The She-Wolf in the Tower

Sansa thought it was all so _romantic_. A prince and princess marrying in the snow, by the god tree their reflections in the great pool, in her own home. Mother wanted it perfect as if the Seven had come down to eat in her halls, which Arya said two days ago. Now Sansa and Arya were following mother like baby chicks after hens for mother felt it was time to expand their lessons. They had to bring out all the finery that had been locked away since the last feast and even some lovelier finery held in storerooms for almost thirty years since her grandfather’s marriage to her grandmother.

 

They washed the tapestries, some even she has never seen.

 

There was the King who Knelt, her ancestor King Torrhen, one that depicted the terrible and bloody fight between young Lord Walton Stark against giants. Two massive figures Sansa assumed were giants were dead in the snow while Walton fought another with a bloody, giant of a sword she assumed was Ice. Below it was a tinier picture almost faded of a broken body in five parts being carried home by worn soldiers. She didn’t like that one very much.

 

Another was one of a lady waving at a prince to return home, him leading a massive army from the gates of Winterfell. She didn’t know who this one was of, but she imagined it was her and her cousin, Aemon.

 

She sighed a brittle breath and held in her tears. She was Sansa Stark, she couldn’t cry in front of all the servants running around planning for the wedding, that would come soon, in a month at least. Especially not with Arya and her lady mother next to her talking of why Arya couldn’t play with Bran. They would notice, her mother would get worried and Arya would laugh.

 

When she was younger, she always assumed father would betroth her to Aemon. Her tall and gallant cousin. He was always so nice and kind. His hair looked like snow, his eyes were like father’s, and he never teased like Arya does and Robb does sometimes. Father said he inherited his father’s and Brandon’s body with a lean Targaryen form, and he was perfect to her eye.

 

He came when he was eight and left at fourteen, the day he left she wore the finest dress she had and tried to seduce him. “Kiss me,” she demanded in his room. All his chests were full, and he was half dressed in riding leathers.

 

He laughed; Sansa blushed from the embarrassment. _This was not going how she planned._  “Sansa, what are you doing here?”

 

“Marry me, make me your princess,” she asked as demurely as possible, eyelashes fluttering. His eyes turned from hers, but she leapt into his arms.

 

It was awkward and her kiss was from an eleven-year-old nowhere near flowering. Their teeth clashed horribly, and his lips barely moved. He softly pushed back, “I’m sorry Sans, nothing, no sparks.”

 

She still blushed in embarrassment and berated herself in the memory of that incident. Afterward she laid in bed thinking of when he returned, she would seduce him with her fourteen-year-old body, their dance in the welcoming feast would be like in the songs. Only for father to go behind her back and give Aemon’s hand to his sister, _his sister!_ How horrid that must be!

 

The Targaryen’s have done it for so many generations back that even Valyria was green and not doomed. But not for a generation, she had assumed, no hoped that because Rhaegar didn’t marry Daenerys then Aemon wouldn’t marry Rhaenys. When she told Arya that when she found her after Sansa left crying and running from the high table after father told the castle about the events upcoming, all Arya said was, “You stupid, Princess Daenerys is younger than Aemon how would Rhaegar marry her?” She threw her pillow so hard at Arya, _and missed_ , the feathers in her pillow burst in the air.

 

Her father came later that night. “I’m sorry, baby.”

 

“It’s not fair!” Sansa had weakly protested. “all of Aem’s letters to Robb say he hates her! Why her and not me!”

 

Father caressed her hair, “Nothing in life’s fair Sansa. And he doesn’t hate her, they just don’t see eye to eye,” when she glared at him, he continued. “But maybe Aemon wasn’t the one for you. There are many men out there for you.”

 

“None of them a prince,” she cried into her father’s arm. She knew Aegon the Bright was marrying the Flower of the South to bring the strongest army to their side, and Viserys a woman of the Old Blood to tighten Targaryen power across the sea. But maybe there was Joffrey, he was her age.

 

“There is something I can do for you,” her father sighed.

 

She perked up and smiled a watery smile at her father, “What is it?!” She asked suddenly interested. “Is it Joffrey?”

 

“ _No_ ,” he laughed but it seemed forced. “Your nameday will be the same week of the wedding,” he pushed a lock of hair out of her face. “And you have been asking for one since you were a toddler following your mother around and treating Arya like a doll.” He laughed at her shocked expression.

 

“I would never treat Arya like a doll! She’s not worthy to be a doll” Even though the memories are forming broken and cloudy in her mind, of days before Arya became a hellion.

 

“Sansa,” her father warned.

 

She nodded her head contritely. “A tourney with all the greatest knights would be perfect papa!” She hugged him hard. “Even Arya would like a tourney, Robb, Bran, and Rickon as well!” Father smiled so widely at her, ever since her twelfth nameday all his presents to her have been wrong and she has told him so, perhaps to indignantly. Even though she would regret it when his face fell, and Arya called her spoiled. She has apologized to him multiple times, but she felt that it didn’t make him feel all that better.

 

“I will be the queen of love and beauty,” she was shaking in excitement. “Who will champion for me father?”

 

Father’s laugh was deep and beautiful, “We will have months to figure that out baby.” He tucked her in for bed, which he hasn’t done for years. “Rest now, I’m sure all your crying has made you tired.”

 

Sansa was she remembered, she felt it deep in her head, for even before the latch closed, she was drifting. Slipping softly and peacefully into a dream like dipping a feet in water. Dreaming of a golden dragon kissing her hand, giving her a flower declaring her the queen of love and beauty. Before he kissed her, she saw his eyes, cat-green and eyes like a demon. She almost screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for making the Sansa chapter so short, I have zero experience in writing girls going through puberty, especially with massive crushes on their cousin. 
> 
> See y'all next week, hopefully, with some Targaryen family bonding!
> 
> Also be on the look out for updates for Uncrowned, How I Lost What I Never Had, and another entry in my Different Roads Sometimes Led to the Same Castle series soon.


	14. The Calm Before the Storm: Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the journey to Winterfell begins. Aemon and Rhaenys bond at a feast, and Rhaenys and Aegon bond afterward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said it will be a while, but the idea of Rhaenys, a prude in this story having wet dreams drove me onward, so here y'all go!

* * *

 

Rhaenys

 _She moaned,_ this was an entirely completely new experience to Rhaenys something she had never felt before. Even the landscape was different. It was bright and welcoming. So bright, it reminded Rhaenys of when the sun would hit her balcony windows just right and shade her rooms in a beautiful glow, so beautiful and bright it was like a mirage in the deserts of Dorne, blocking her view of most of the world till it was just her.

 

This time she wasn’t alone, and there was no fire in this dream, so not a night terror. _How do I know it’s a dream?_ Well, for one she has never felt something so blood curdling good. Her hands fisted in the Yi Tish silk sheets of her gloriously soft bed, her Lengii gossamer bed shift was bunched up right under her chest, the softness rubbed against her erect nipples and brought such inane satisfaction. Her black amethyst necklace from Asshai was haphazardly thrown by a large hand on to the floor. The deep, gruff, and straight to the point voice ordered, and she obeyed, throwing her jade, ruby, and tiger eye rings off her fingers.

 

By the Old and New Gods of Westeros, from the Summer Sea to the Lands of Always Winter, Rhaenys was in pure bliss. Her mind knew the pleasure from her core was fake but the soft and hesitant feel of pink lips on her own pink lips was true. It was light and barely there, and they pulled away as fast as it kept approaching. Bow-shaped lips forming into a surprised frown and running off.

 

She mourned the loss of lips that touched but actually in reality barely touched and never connected, till the pleasure welled in her core tenfold.

 

She felt a surging of pleasure bursting through her body then. Her hips lifted off the bed, and she moaned a name that sounded very similar to _Aemon_. The pressure in her core lifted and a dragon with grey eyes looked her over. It was beautiful and magnificent, the shine around its mouth was either blood or her release, she couldn’t tell but she wanted to kiss it off.

 

“Rhae,” it rumbled, deep and old power emerging with every syllable. “Rhaenys.”

 

She reached for it, but it’s face was evaporating. Rhaenys chased her wet dream for as long as she could. But every time she reached for it, the dragon with grey eyes would disappear faster and faster till it felt like she was a child again chasing Balerion down long, dark, and strangely winding tunnels of red stone.

 

“Rhaenys!” This voice was different, it was sharp and impatient, and her eyes blinked furiously open. The blinding light this time was not as beautiful and blinding as her dream was, but harsh and shocking.

 

Rhaenys looked Talla Tarly in the face, her eyes were wide with worry and impatience. “My lady, finally you are awake! We were so worried. It is time to ride soon, the van has already left!” Talla helped Rhaenys rise out of her bed of fine furs over a worn travel mattress.

 

Rhaenys realized with a blush that she woke aching and wanting, not unlike her other dreams with the grey-eyed dragon. It always ended the same way, her chasing him to only grab mist and wake. She wasn’t stupid either, she knew the dragon represented Aemon, it… it just was her first times having such dreams. Never before had anything awakened _lust_ in her. No one, none of her suitors, Ser Clifford, Quentyn, none of them.

 

Rhaenys followed albeit slowly and awkwardly, her thighs were slick and sticky, and it made sitting up difficult. When Talla threw off her furs and saw the damp spot on her bed shift, she seemed surprised, but Septa Asherah who was rubbing out a dress’s wrinkles tutted in dissatisfaction.

 

“Are you okay, my lady,” Talla’s voice was worried and soft. “You moaned a lot last night, Maegelle feared you caught a chill. Ser Marston did mention that we would face some colder Northern winds.”

 

“Is it your moon blood,” Valeria eyes the damp spot. “Me and Maegelle haven’t hit ours yet. We all usually hit it at the same time.”

 

“It’s not moon blood,” Asherah glares at Rhaenys with her pale teal eyes. Rhaenys rolls her eyes knowing a lesson not from the Seven’s book of words, but from a prude was coming. “It is sin. A woman should not be aroused, even in the presence of her husband.”

 

“Aroused?” Talla repeats dumbly.

 

The pavilion’s flap is thrown open and Maegelle walks in carrying a wash basin of watered soap, “Oh, piss off with your septa’s nonsense. We all know Ser Arthur Dayne makes the septa here basically piss her smallclothes in pleasure.” Asherah turns a shade of pink though her glare leaves Rhaenys and focuses on Maegelle, which Rhaenys is glad of till Maegelle sits in front of her. “Was it Aems again?” She whispers as she cleans between her legs.

 

Rhaenys nods, she had told Maegelle and only Maegelle about what occurred before Jon Arryn died. “It’s happening again. When will it stop,” at Maegelle’s questioning glance Rhaenys explains further. “The dreams Mae, when will the dreams stop? The aching, the wanting?” Rhaenys complained in distress, she was a princess not a whore.

 

She giggles, and Rhaenys has never heard her giggle, only a boisterous laugh of varying degrees of loud. “Till you fuck him.”

 

Rhaenys blushes hard, “That is entirely improper Mae!” She swats Maegelle’s hand away and grabs the cloth herself. She washes her arms and legs. “I wouldn’t know how to,” she waved a hand, “ _fuck_ anyhow.”

 

Maegelle takes a second cloth from the wash basin that she uses to clean Rhaenys’ neck. Her face is serious but her eyes gleam in mirth, as to say _I know something you don’t for once Rhae._ “No one does on their first try, but practice with someone you care about is truly as pleasing as the best feeling you have ever experienced, perhaps tenfold more.”

 

“Really?” _Nothing can feel as good as reading a tome on a chilly morning on her balcony,_ she thinks. Rhaenys is still unsure, she really wishes she had some experience before her wedding in the next month.

 

“Oh yes, it’s a little gooey feeling in your stomach that is incomparable.”

 

“That’s enough sin for one day princess,” Asherah raises the riding dress up for her inspection. “We have a full day today. Riding to Harrenhal, meeting Lady Whent, and then attending the welcoming feast, and you must pick your dress for the wedding on the morrow, then rest. And I’m sure there’s to be a hunt tomorrow as well.”

 

“And then Winterfell,” Valeria asks. Valeria has become more and more withdrawn since leaving King’s Landing and Nessaria moving to Dragonstone.

 

“Yes,” Rhaenys caresses Val’s hand. “Then Winterfell, and then we can relax for a period of time.” More like months, father is leaving them there for a ‘honeymoon’. Though more like he wants her to be pregnant as fast as possible and pump out heirs as far from Cersei’s presence or control.  _That is something I can agree with,_ Rhaenys thinks. Ever since the wedding has been announced Cersei has been acting as if father was to die soon.

 

She has called in another Lannister relative to meet them at Harrenhal, and she has forced one of Rhaenys’ allies, the Lord and Lady Hayford from court under the pretense that Lord Hayford cannot possible do his courtly duties with a pregnant wife and sent him home. _Ignoring the fact that Cersei has done so three times while pregnant._

 

“I’ve seen maps, but you don’t imagine the size of something till you ride it,” Valeria said in awe. “So much green and farms and land that stretches so far the eye can’t see.”

 

“Is your home like that?” Talla asks, as Rhaenys dons her riding dress.

 

“Oh, I wish Lady Talla,” Valeria’s voice drops. “We are just an island. The houses stretch from coast to coast, there’s grassy plazas spersed throughout but in the city, you never really see a blade of grass.” Her face turns fond. “The cliffs are high, and snails are as common as rats. On the mainland, we have some smaller towns and farms but the further you go inland it becomes desert. A beautiful desert of scorched and salted earth, nary a living thing in sight, but once in a while there’s an oasis town built around wells that support farms and animals.”

 

“It sounds truly lovely, reminds me of the deserts of Dorne, except ours have sand.”

 

The flap opened again to reveal Dalna. Rhaenys’ new handmaiden Dalna Coldwater, was the daughter of a minor King’s Landing noble, returned with some smoked fish, ham, and sausages to break their fast. Dalna was pretty with brown hair and green eyes, and she was picked by the steward Bevicard since her brother fought beside Rhaenys' soon to be husband, Aemon, against pirates. She was a hard worker, but Rhaenys missed Nessaria already.

 

She should have fought harder for Nessaria not to marry Viserys, perhaps a Velaryon cousin, a Pellaeon, Quentyn even. All would be better for sweet Nessaria. She knew those screams from her room wasn’t all in pleasure the night of the wedding. Viserys was mad but no one knew he would be as mad as Aerys.

 

Once Aegon was king she would convince him to deal with Viserys. Since Rhaegar and Rhaella have chosen to allow him to be mad. He needs to be put down like a mad dog, no doubt about it.

 

They ate in silence till Ser Oswell said it was time to go. Rhaenys calmly gets her ladies in order to enter the chaotic world of a court on the move.

 

Outside the environment is all mud, horse shit, and dark skies.

 

“It’s to rain today, my lady,” Ser Marston Vollfield says as he wraps her in a black cloak with a hood. He was a man of average height with dirty blonde hair and pale eyes, he was her great-uncle Aelor’s closest companion besides Ser Priam of Sable Lake, both of whom Aelor ordered to guard her and Maegelle as they went north as he stayed in King’s Landing with his other men. Priam had black hair and even blacker eyes, but he was an expert swordsman, and he moved his greatsword as fast as a normal knight swings a dagger. Fast and loyal and competent these two men were.

 

On top of those two men, were her personal Kingsguard Ser Oswell, and some black cloaks, her father’s personal Red Keep guards. He brought fifty of his hundred men with him, and gave five the job to guard her, Arylon, Cujo, Nono, Ser Thancred, and Ser Drace. All capable men and willing to go the ends of the earth and beyond for her.

 

Like Oswell, Priam, and Marston, she has known Drace and Thancred since she was young, but Nono, Cujo, and Arylon are Dragonstone boys who joined less than two years ago. Fast, eager, and increasingly becoming capable Rhaenys acknowledged her need of them and their swords.

 

Now though all her black cloaks were mounted and eager to leave camp. In the center of their formation was her wheelhouse, not as large as Cersei’s but still cumbersome. It housed a bed for when they needed to make night marches, but otherwise was of average size. It was two floors of solid ironwood, the first floor was a sitting area with some games hidden in places and an emergency provision larder, the second was where the cramped bed resided.

 

Ser Oswell helped her into the wheelhouse, then proceeded to help her other ladies before he mounted up. The driver got onto his seat with a clamber. He was a Coldwater as well, an uncle to Dalna. Slightly overweight, but a good storyteller and singer, though he had a tendency to sing the _Demon of Blackwater Bay,_ to appease her. If only someone told him she preferred not to hear of Aemon’s exploits.

 

“The Demon had a thirst, a savage thirst, he drunk but no relief, till he saw a sliver of rum, a taste of the finest _rum_ ,” he sung just six days ago, a quiet word from Ser Oswell had him omitting that part of the song since.

 

They rode for a long time, watching and seeing the world go past them. They traveled past holdfasts after holdfasts, a tower with a strong base, a leaning tower, and a broken tower destroyed in some war.

 

These were the borders of Uncle Aelor’s land and they were truly beautiful. Vineyards more than the eye can count, grapes of red, purple, and green covered in water droplets as it drizzled upon their heads. Farms where peasants either stared, waved, or ignored their entourage. Little boys covered in mud to their chest ran alongside the horses till they reached the ends of their lands.

 

This is what father’s lessons meant when he talks of the people. Not the lords and ladies in their castles but the men and women working our land, living their lives, unaffected except when one lord declares war on another.

 

“That right there must be Ser Hillforts’ castle,” Maegelle pointed at the small but formidable castle upon a hill, with steep glacis on every side.

 

“How do you enter, it looks so impenetrable,” Talla asks, she seems more confident when it comes to siege and warfare then men and womanly issues. “Those glacis would stop any charge but also prevent any ally and yourself to enter. It’s impenetrable, but also has many design flaws.”

 

Maegelle eyes in a bored manner, “The entrance is on the southern side, a gate at the bottom of the hill. Me and my father went there once on business, the Hillforts’ son Erwin wanted to marry me.”

 

Talla nodded pleased at that information. “Sam would love the history, and Dickon would love the defenses, I must write to them.”

 

As soon as they passed into Wode land the wheelhouse broke a wheel in a savage pothole deep in the ground. And the ladies had to exit and wait gracefully in the mud.

 

“How much time will this take,” Oswell asked. “I want to be at Harrenhal by sunset.”

 

“An hour maybe,” the Coldwater said. “I’ll need extra hands.”

 

Rhaenys nodded, “Nono, Cujo, Arylon help out Coldwater. Ser Drace let the rear know we have stopped, Ser Thancred let the front know.”

 

With three young man helping out the going went faster, especially when Aegon sent some ten men from the front. In no time the wheel was replaced in less than an hour and they were back on the road. In perfect timing for the rain that decided to pour down viciously then.

 

“I like the size of Westeros, but these roads are horrible princess,” Valeria commented. Rhaenys had to agree, compared to the dragonroads of Old Valyria, these roads were shit. Muddy and treacherous, pothole prone, and travelling took much longer than it should if one carried supply carts. Another item on Rhaenys’ list when Aegon became king.

 

Truthfully, they could do it now, but Rhaegar seemed to focus on more of infrastructure at home and supplying the Night’s Watch. To redo the roads as they were before the Dance of Dragons would take years. As Mushroom said, “Muddy roads are harder to see from dragonback than cobbled and stone ones.”

 

Closer to Harrenhal the roads did get better. Stone paths lay before them and in the distance five fingers crested the sky as if a giant black giant was trying to grab the sun. “Home, sweet home,” Ser Oswell sighed in relief.

 

“I’m glad were going to your home,” Rhaenys leans out the window to stretch her old wound. “It’s bigger than how you speak of it.”

 

“Perhaps I don't do it justice, well we only live in three of the towers now, but it looks like all the towers have candles glittering in their windows.” He frowns in displeasure.

 

“Your great-great nephew is marrying a Bracken, ser,” she teases.

 

“And all the lords of the Riverlands and some Lannisters, the Targaryens, and Tyrells are here,” he mumbles not gladly.

 

“Os, are you well?” He sounds very unhappy.

 

“Just reminds me of another time, time before all went to shit, this ruin was the beginning.” His eyes glaze over. Rhaenys has no idea what he is talking about, but it must have been a horrible time in Oswell’s life.

 

Harrenhal’s gate house was as large as Maegor’s Holdfast, if not larger. But cracked and fissured by the Conqueror’s great dragon Balerion the Black Dread and in disrepair. No man was as rich as Harren to rebuild Harrenhal, and Aegon the Conqueror wanted no one to repair what he probably deemed his greatest accomplishment of savagery.

 

Harren built to big, dreamed to big, and was too stubborn by far, who could possibly live here and not go broke with the cost. Rhaenys thought as she stepped out of the wheelhouse, hand in Ser Marston’s, head craned upwards seeking the top of the tower Oswell called the Widow’s Tower, the one he lived in as a boy. The top was malformed and sloped like a glacis, and looked as if it would cave in the entire tower, but since it has stood that way from exactly three hundred years Rhaenys assumed it would have already done so.

 

Lady Shella Whent was a stooped back lady, with high cheekbones, though the skin was doughy and fleshly pale, hanging like jowls, her eyes while dark were also cloudy in upcoming blindness. Her once auburn hair was as silver as a sword.

 

“Do my eyes deceive me, is this Oswell the Dark,” Oswell smiled at his cousin, she thinks, the Whents were a huge family once. Numbers in the hundreds, Harrenhal was lively once. Oswell hugs Lady Shella tight enough to imprint but not tight enough to crush the old lady.

 

“This is my charge, Princess Rhaenys,” he presents her.

 

“I cannot kneel so take my bowed head as deference,” her head barely dropped but it took great strength to lift it again. “Your father and brothers have already arrived princess and are currently resting in the Kingspyre tower with House Tyrell. Here,” she waved over a taller man. He was stiff-necked and stolid but had a calculating gleam to his eyes. Three hedgehogs adorned his doublet. “My castellan, Ser Willis Wode.”

 

He bowed low and deep, “I will you show you and your companions their lodgings, your highness.”

 

She nodded gracefully and let him conduct them to the Kingspyre Tower. “There are many steps, forgive me, we have a winch, but it is currently in use for your possessions.”

 

“It is quite alright, we have been sitting for days, I need to stretch my legs,” she replied politely. She heard Maegelle whisper a complain to Ser Priam about the stairs. Though she wished they had waited for a winch, by the seventh floor she was almost wheezing in her corset and regretting the whole thing.

 

“Pardon the stairs again princess,” he bashfully says, hearing her households heavy breathing. “These are your quarters, in them you will find three rooms, the main room and two side rooms for companions and Ser Oswell. Across the hall is your betrothed, further down is the king and the crown prince. Below in the Tyrells.” He bowed low again and took his leave.

 

She glared at his back for he wasn’t even out of breath. Valeria roughly opened the door into a wide, almost cavern like salon. Ten times her own salon in King’s Landing. Three fireplaces crackled with already set fires. “This is amazing princess,” Valeria said in awe.

 

It was she had to admit, fresh rushes covered the floor, and also hid the warped uneven look of the floor slightly. Beautiful chairs and lounges surrounded a nice dark wood furnished table.

 

Rhaenys’ room was even as cavernous as the salon. With a large bed under an even larger window, inset was a large glass pane, open to let in some fresh air. Red curtains billowed in the breeze. For a ruin it was not too bad, it wasn’t home, but it had a feeling of history to it. She relaxed in the bed, and almost fell asleep till Oswell loudly called through the door to tell her of the welcoming feast in an hour.

 

Rhaenys contemplated skipping the whole feast. Her old scar ached. Sometimes when she sat or rode for long periods of time it ached once she relaxed. And she was so tired, but she also knew if she slept, she would dream of a dragon with grey eyes.

 

She rose and garb herself in her finest Valyrian robe-dress of Lengii gossamer. It was dark purple, almost indigo, a color that brought out her eyes, and was embroidered with a silver dragon on the hems.

 

They dined in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, though only less than half of that number were lit and burning, and only a quarter of the hall was filled with people. Once again, she was astounded at the size and worried of the cost of such a castle. She focused on eating and watching Aegon, who talked with everyone very chivalrously. When he came by Lady Margaery his face fell slightly, though only someone who truly knew him could tell, and only three people knew Aegon: himself, Rhaenys, and Renly.

 

Margaery was very courteous and Aegon was speaking as if he did not abhor the marriage he would be forced into once they all returned south. Rhaenys sat next Maegelle and father at the high table, but Maegelle went to dance with Ser Ollerus, and father had retired early with Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Tyrell, who had been complaining of the wait for Aegon to marry his daughter after her and Aemon’s wedding for almost the whole feast.

 

“May I sit here,” Aemon asks, indicating Maegelle’s open seat.

 

“Of course,” she cannot look into his eyes or she fears falling into them like in the late Jon Arryn’s solar. “Betrothed.”

 

“Betrothed,” he returns and watches Howald lead Jeyne Bracken, a short, but big-chested, wide hipped woman with a lovely face and pretty black hair. Aemon signals for a refill of both of their chalices. He seems content to watch Howald and his betrothed dance.

 

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Rhaenys asks after three songs pass.

 

He looked constipated, “I was told to ask you to dance, but I don’t dance.”

 

She swirled her wine around, “Ahh, the _Demon_ can’t ask a princess to dance.”

 

His grey eyes narrowed; she felt a blush. “Why must you never speak politely.” It wasn’t a question she noticed.

 

“Why beat around the hedge when I can kill the robber knight with a sword.”

 

“Not all hedge knights are robber knights,” he retorted.

 

Rhaenys snorted, “Like all bastards aren’t like the Blackfyres?” Now Aemon’s face was red as well as hers, it was only right.

 

“I’m not a bastard, you know that,” he turned his head.

 

“Of course, I know that,” she tenderly touched his warm and large hand. “But does the realm? Lord Tyrell doesn’t trust you; I reckon he sees you as a threat to his grand prize.”

 

“Father shouldn’t trust the Tyrells. They have orchestrated a powerful position to force father into this marriage. They married the biggest rivals to their power Hightower and Redwyne, thereby hurting the other fractious lords such as Florent and Tarly and Rowan.”

 

“Oh good! So, you did pay attention at your maester’s knee,” she japed.

 

He turned a glare on her and began to rise in anger. “I’m done,” he stood up. She felt slightly guilty of her words, she supposed, but her truly heart ached at the idea of him leaving, she wanted to talk more.

 

She reached and grabbed his hand, ashamed to look him in the eye, “Sorry, can you please not leave,” she whispered.

 

His head whipped back to her, “Are you going to stop antagonizing me?”

 

He was rubbing in his now superior position she knew. Rhaenys has never shown deference to anyone before and he was reveling in it. “You know I cannot help it.” She was letting him win and not win if he sat down now, but he actively ignored it.

 

“We’re to be married. Are you going to annoy me to an early grave to run from you?”

 

She flinched. “Don’t say that.”

 

“Why not, Maegon believes so, hell even quiet and polite Cory says I’m doomed to suffer daily,” he harshly whispers.

 

“I am not that horrible?” She says aghast.

 

“And I’m no demon of the blackwater bay.” He says with finality ending that conversation and sits down again.

 

“Could you tell me about it,” she sips her wine, and barely registers their intertwined hands.

 

He turns his grey eyes on her, before they were like granite, now they were slowly becoming silver again, “About what,” he says tiredly.

 

“The battle you…” She was going to say dimwit, Aemon’s eyes had a teasing look to them. “Tell me about the battle against Drak the Fang,” she tries the tone on her tongue, a slight flirty and interested octave, “Aemon.”

 

He searched her face and smiled at her. “See, peaceful conversation.”

 

“I wouldn’t consider the topic to be peaceful,” she mumbles. His grip tightens on her hand bringing attention to both of their still clasped hands. “Is this considered proper?” She asks sending a pointed look at their conjoined hands.

 

“Was what happened in Jon Arryn’s solar proper?” He returns she thinks (hopes) in a teasing manner and not in mockery.

 

She can feel the slight pressure of the almost-kiss even now. Her mind urges her to mention _rum,_ the woman he dishonored her with before he knew he was dishonoring her. How the story of Aemon and the Summer Islander spread so far was no mystery. It was an integral part to the song.

 

She is jolted out of her musing by Aemon’s thumb massaging the corners of her mouth, to ease her frown. “I was only teasing,” he says. Her eyes search for Septa Asherah watching them but it seems the septa has already retired.

 

She softly removes his thumb, “I know,” her tongue subconsciously licks the side of her mouth where his thumb was. “Just reminiscing on how my body just moved forward till only you were left.”

 

Aemon’s eyes dart to her tongue. “I understand that I don’t understand either. One minute we're bickering, bordering on arguing, then your eyes just looked so beautiful. Like the sunset after I executed Drak the Fang.”

 

Rhaenys blushed, “How romantic. Did Howald teach you that?”

 

“Is it that obvious?” He laughs. “He is good with ladies; he got the most stubborn woman in the Riverlands to marry him after all.”

 

“I thought Lady Shella brokered the marriage?”

 

“Have you seen her? Lord Bracken would have her sell Harrenhal in the marriage contract, she was strong once but now she is old and broken. How many children and grandchildren did she lose? All she has is her great-grandchild Howald left. She and Bracken put out the idea she did it, so others would not see how weak her house was. They do command some of the largest and fertile lands in the Riverlands.”

 

She smiled at Aemon. _He will be a good, no, a great prince of the realm once Aegon ascends._ Proud in a non-sister sort of way, which she was unsure of how to proceed with, so she just squeezed his hand tighter.

 

“Can I hear it now,” she batted her eyelashes at him.

 

Aemon gulped dryly, nodded, and took a long swig from his chalice before having the serving lady refill him again. “As you know, Cersei wanted me to die, and Jon Arryn believed the throne needed to send someone of royal blood to ‘do their duty,’ whatever that means.”

 

He took a shallow sip, similar to the ones Rhaenys would do to convince men she was drinking when in reality she hardly touched her wine. “What you didn’t know was that Arryn talked to me after. He told me, that he only trusted me with this. He said, ‘you are the key, the seed is strong.’ Then he talked of how the Venigars coming north could not be accosted by pirates at all cost, or our alliance would wither. Though Viserys did well with that anyhow.”

 

 _The seed is strong, Maester Ornifex’s tome. What was Arryn thinking? It was all so confusing_. “Our uncle did botch that very well, didn’t he?” She giggled.

 

Aemon smiled, and began telling her all about the journey to the islands, the bickering between the two captains. How sad he was for them both to perish in the battle, the Greyjoy discovery. The sick pleading of Drak once they reached Dragonstone and he was told he wasn’t going to the wall but to be executed. At one point in the story she felt hard eyes on her, but she didn’t know where they were from when she looked into the dwindling feast crowd.

 

“It’s not how the singers tell it. I mean you know it isn’t true, father, uncle Ned, and others have taught me about how disgusting and horrifying killing is.” His silver eyes were glazed in horror. She kissed his hand, slowly, never taking her eyes off him.

 

“Killing should never be easy, Aems.”

 

“Not many are taught that, Ser Arthur claims he was taught to overcome those feelings when killing. Many are taught the same, grandmother never wanted me to learn that way.” He mumbled the word grandmother; he knew Rhaella was a sore topic between them.

 

“Rhaella wanted you to not be like grandfather,” she caressed his hand softly. “If you weren’t there it’s hard to imagine. But sometimes I remember. I remember the day he burnt Lord Stark.”

 

“You were there,” he asked incredulously.

 

“For the beginning, mother nor grandmother could disobey Aerys when he wanted someone to watch a person burn with him. I was taken away quietly when the screams began, but Viserys wasn’t so lucky.”

 

“Is that what is wrong with him?”

 

“Only the gods and Viserys know,” she swallowed her wine now. When she thinks of the burnings all she succeeds in is merging the sounds of her mother and Lord Stark’s screams. It makes a queer racket in her ears.

 

“And Aeryk,” Aemon laughs at his own jape and Rhaenys is pulled out of her dark thoughts by it. It was sweet and pretty.

 

“You, Aemon Targaryen have a pretty laugh for your gruff voice.”

 

He feigned fake shock, “My laugh is decidedly not pretty!”

 

“Aye,” she mocks him, lowering her voice.

 

They continued to laugh and talk for not much longer for Ser Oswell commented on it was time to leave the feast. Aemon kissed her cheek and bid her ado, he headed off in the direction of the Widow’s Tower not the Kingspyre Tower. She assumed he was to see Howald before he retired.

 

As she climbed the steps, she more felt than heard or saw a presence, Os did too and stepped in front of her, white armor gauntlet held her close to him. “Sorry, princess,” he muttered as he pawed his sword.

 

“Ossy,” a slurred voice called from above. “Can’t a prince talk to his sister, the other did for a while.”

 

She escaped Os’s hold, “Aegon?” she squinted her eyes to see better in the darkness.

 

“The one and only. Sister,” he commanded in a slur, “walk with me.”

 

She obeyed, Aegon was just drunk, still seething over Renly being denied the right to travel with the court and sent back to Storm’s End then onto Tyrosh as the throne's envoy. They climbed a flight before she spoke, “Egg, are you _well_?”

 

He scowled at her, “More than _well,_ I saw you being cozy with the bastard.”

 

“He’s our brother,” she defended.

 

“No, he is a rival to my throne.”

 

“A throne you don’t want, you’re drunk. You love Aemon.”

 

“How could I love a man who took away my mother and left me with _Cersei_.” He spoke the name with such venom it threw her back.

 

“He’s to be my husband,” she defended.

 

The moonlight turned Aegon from a glorious silver prince to a broken man then. “We should have been married. You understand me. You know I am not normal,” he broke in sobs suddenly. “You know how to rule, gods you even love it, crave it. I could love Renly and you could rule.”

 

She grabbed his head and held him close. The stairs were deserted, and the moonlight helped cast a pail of loneliness over them.

 

“Why now?” She asks.

 

“What,” he lifts his head, confused.

 

“Why are you telling me this now? You had no problem with our marriage before, you even congratulated us.”

 

He snorted and rubbed his runny nose with his fine tunic sleeve. “At a feast sister, what was I supposed to do? Vehemently oppose your wedding and have everyone from Oldtown to Castle Black talking of a Second Dance of Dragons.”

 

She giggled, “Aemon would never rebel, he’s too honorable.”

 

He laughed brokenly, “This man, in the Lannister camp, who came with Ser Tygett was laughing in an alcove. He said you and Aemon are the future of our dynasty without lion blood in it, for I’ll never bed Margaery. I wanted to kill them; I want to kill all of them blonde-haired pissants.”

 

“Will you, will you bed her,” Rhaenys wipes the tears from his face ignoring his violent outburst. He turned his head to look outside. She never knew Aegon felt so horrible before. She knew he was miserable, but never this bad. She was wrong before, Aegon wasn’t seething over his separation with Renly, no, he was in a much worst position.

 

She caressed his cheek, which got him to look at her again. If eyes were gate ways to the soul, then Aegon’s itself was broken in pieces, she released a sob at the sight. “I can’t, you know I can’t. I’m truly not normal, am I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was suppose to house a conversation between Aegon and Aemon, but i was too tired, the chapter got way to long, and I felt they deserved their whole own chapter, for we have only seen their interactions in flashbacks and in court, where Aegon is surrounded by lickspittles.
> 
> Anyway, you know the deal, kudos and comments are appreciated, they really do help me write chapters!


	15. The Calm Before the Storm: Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aemon broods and has a talk with Rhaegar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like writing broody characters. Sorry for the short chapter, the next I plan on being extremely long.

Aemon

It was strange, to him, ever since they held hands under the table at the welcoming feast in Harrenhal’s cavernous Hall of a Hundred Hearths, Rhaenys and him seemed to find each other everywhere. By the giant balcony on the seventh floor of the Kingspyre tower where they stayed, at the middle bailey where he and Ser Gunter trained, at the secluded alcove on the sixth floor of the Kingspyre Tower near the giant bridge that connects it to the Widow’s Tower, even out in the large fields surrounding Harrenhal.

 

Aemon practically searched for her at this point. They talked of nonsense honestly, from his favorite sweet cake, which was cherry cake and hers a thousand-layer cake, their favorite past time, hers was reading like the little maester Rhaegar called her. She seemed to be aghast at that, “Don’t go telling everyone of that, they’ll see my soft side.”

 

“I doubt anyone who knows of you would fear of your soft side,” he remarked, she touched his arm in a clumsy attempt of flirting, her eyes were embarrassed, and he laughed on the inside.

 

“Don’t laugh,” she pouted. Her plush lips he once called wormy and she threw a candelabra at him were beautiful and ripe for the taking.

 

“I’m not,” he protested.

 

“There’s no noise, but your eyes are practically falling over themselves!” She smacked his arm; this was a form of flirting she seemed more at home with. Perhaps because it was closer to sibling interaction. “If I’m Rhaegar’s little maester, then you are a little Rhaegar.”

 

For the first time he was put back and it wasn’t in mock outrage. “You are blind, I’m nothing like-,” she stopped his rant with a finger on his mouth. They both blushed furiously.

 

“ _Aems_ , you are the only blind one. Everyone knows of what you do in your chambers when no one is looking or listening,” she smiled mischievously. When she gave him that look, he saw Maegelle and not Rhaenys, either she had rubbed off on her in the most salacious way or Maegelle was teaching Rhaenys. “Those long, elegant fingers wrapped around-.”

 

Ser Oswell broke it up then, “That’s enough princess, I’m your chaperone and I decide this topic is to unsavory to my taste.” Oswell gave him a dark look of reproach as to say don’t stick your grubby hands in my charge.

 

Rhaenys played the innocent well, though looking back he realized her eyes weren’t disappointed as if she didn’t finish a joke, she was genuinely confused. As Oswell began to push her away, she looked at him and said, “You must play for me!” Oswell guided her away faster, but Aemon blushed.

 

Cory was laughing his ass off, “Courting at its finest, if only my brothers could see this.”

 

Aemon gave Cory a friendly clout on his ear. “I don’t think she meant that way.”

 

Gunter chuckled behind Aemon, “I hope Oswell doesn’t give Rhaegar a report of this. Imagine how he would feel if his son had corrupted his daughter before their own wedding?”

 

“She didn’t mean that way!” He argued strongly, but all he received was laughs. But Oswell didn’t stop Rhaenys from finding him again the next day.

 

At first the strange talk of Rhaenys confuddled him when he returned to King’s Landing from Winterfell three years ago. It seemed thet every word out of her mouth usually has some political meaning behind it or was a retort in her husky voice. Her nice, husky voice that gave Aemon chills whenever he heard it now. When before it had him fuming and he would run away to Ser Gunter, the only constant in his life. Now though, it was if she just wanted to learn about him, as a person.

 

As his big sister she knew him as a boy and barely a man. Strange as it was to mention though knowing someone in a familial manner and intimately was different as night and day. Aemon didn’t understand, but if Maegon was here Aemon was sure he would say something along the lines, “Knowing someone is knowing someone, that never changes. Having sex with them changes a lot though!”

 

Aemon snorted into the whipping wind that tore through his cloak where he stood upon the giant balcony on the seventh floor of the Kingspyre Tower. The wind smelled of nature, shit, mud, trees, and the sweet lake breeze. It was relaxing, just enough to sooth Aemon’s headache that came with his conundrum. He knew he was brooding for once.

 

While he had some experience with women, well more than a little, it was never long term. Nothing had ever lasted more than one night, whether it was the one whore he had at Usk, Kojja, or the random servant in the Red Keep. He imagines getting into a woman’s skirts and being a partner were entirely different. Though his experience is lacking in positive role models for that as well.

 

Rhaegar and Cersei have their moments in court when Rhaegar does something particularly chivalrous and she stares him down like a piece of meat, but that was rare and Aemon’s memory recalls only one specific experience, and that was during the feast of Aegon’s seventh nameday, and Myrcella was born a year later.

 

Uncle Ned and Aunt Cat had more moments of partnership than lust. They worked together and never a kept a secret from each other, though nary a day went past without them touching and talking. Once he caught them in the alcove below the broken tower, at nine he was disgusted and ranted to Robb and Sansa all about it. Robb had pretended to puke, and Sansa stared dreamily at him in a way that he never understood till the day he left.

 

He thought about Winterfell then, the giant grey walls, the grey towers, the slate-grey sky, the snow, the feeling of rightness. He can’t wait for when he would be there for months before he must return to Summerhall and begin his life as it’s true lord. It was not what he wanted but what he wanted all the same. He wanted to sail once more go to Braavos, Lys, Yi Ti even; he would gladly fight someone before he took to the war the marriage bed was sure to be.

 

Targaryens have been unblessed with happy marriages since Aegon V and Betha Blackwood, the last time we married for love that did not cause war and strife. But since he was half Targaryen maybe his Stark side came through and he would have a perfect marriage. But if he went off that then Rhaenys had double the problem, Targaryens have had horrible marriages, and her uncle Doran had a conflict rife marriage as well.

 

But his inner Maegon laughed, and it was right, those were other people's problems this was his problem, he could change his own future. He and Rhaenys had some minor issues from the past to work over but in the span of life they had years to talk it out. They’ve even put behind some issues already in their little talks, she has been nicer, and he hasn’t tried to provoke her.

 

Boots on melted stone took his attention from his dark and complicated thoughts, for a second he thought it was Rhaenys for another talk. The steps were soft and unsure like when she encountered him, but when he turned his head it was Rhaegar.

 

His hair was recently cut, his indigo eyes flat, bags under them. A small smile sets upon his face. “Your grace,” he greets.

 

The smiled died, and Aemon knew he shouldn’t have been petty. “Aemon,” he returns. He joins him at the ledge and rests his arms against the rail. “Ser Gunter tells me you’ve been here since dawn.” The sun was above them now but shrouded by clouds.

 

“It is relaxing. The wind, the quietness.” Aemon studies his father while trying to remember the last time they spoke without anyone in attendance or been this close if not at dinner. Perhaps the awkward hug and head rub he received from him when he went north almost a decade ago.

 

“I know you want to know about your mother’s people, but you are always a dragon, my son.” Aemon remembered his father saying.

 

“Have you been enjoying yourself?” Something in Rhaegar’s gaze was all knowing.

 

“Perhaps, I miss Howald and Maegon, but they are busy.” It was true but he knew it would piss Rhaegar off, Howald was off on wedding duties and Maegon was at Sable Lake dealing with some outlaws left over from the rebellion years ago.

 

Those flat eyes narrow, “Don’t play stupid, Aegon does that enough for one lifetime.”

 

“Yes, Rhaenys has been a pleasure to learn more about, I assume you have had a hand in us meeting everywhere.”

 

Those flat eyes got some definition then, “You are just like your mother. Seeing through everything.”

 

Aemon scoffed, “Yes she was a great woman, a shame I never met her.” He should really stop trying to antagonize his father, just when some emotion entered his father’s eyes they evaporated.

 

A melancholic shroud fell over them. Rhaegar searched the God’s Eye shining brilliantly in the distance. “She was the greatest woman I ever met till I had the privilege of watching Rhaenys grow up. Her smile when given was beautiful,” he gave a meaningful look at Aemon. “She said the same as my own, similar to yours.” If Aemon wasn’t thinking that was the longest sentence ever said to him not in a lecture, he might have noticed the love in his voice. “I met her here several times. She hated me for a while, but I guess I grew on her as she grew on me. This is the exact spot we kissed for the first time.”

 

 _She was fourteen_ , he raged in his mind. “Did you love her?” For some reason he had to know, it was important but not important as well. _How many died for your love_ , he thought.

 

If it was possible the melancholic shroud around them got heavier, “I know I have been a lacking father,” he sighed. “Any child would already know this if I was attentive enough. You look so much like her.” He parted Aemon’s hair out of his face, the length was coming back and the tight curls were being to droop to corkscrews. Rhaegar's cold, long, and elegant fingers caressed his cheek.

 

“Did you love her?” He asked once again, with some steel.

 

The hand retreated and Aemon felt cold when it did. Rhaegar sighed, “It was complicated,” the king blinked severely, as if tears might come.

 

“It’s a yes or no answer,” Aemon had his grandfather’s height and stood two inches over his father. But it didn’t scare Rhaegar just made him sad and disappointed.

 

“I have truly been lacking as a father.” Aemon was truly ready to throttle his father. “Yes,” he said as if it caused his lungs to collapse and all his strength left him. “I loved Lyanna more than anything in the world. I wished that the world had been different, and I never married Elia, if my father wasn’t a monster. That you didn’t have to grow up a stigma, your grandfather killed your other grandfather and uncle, a shame.”

 

“I find the world truly lacking what is right,” he forgot about that piece of history. In Rhaegar’s court it was his dream that Aerys never existed and many tried to put him away from their minds.

 

“And it will continue to be lacking,” Rhaegar stood up from leaning over the rail. “The wheel turns and turns till we encounter a pothole.”

 

“You sound like grandmother,” Aemon smiled in memory.

 

“Yes, she told me that. She was the wheel for several long years.” He put a hand on Aemon’s shoulder, it took all his strength to not shrug it off. “You have a chance to do that. Come to court tonight, there’s words one needs to hear.”

 

“Am I being sent to fight more pirates,” he bitterly said.

 

Rhaegar actually smiled, “Not unless you want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I promise next chapter we will see Aegon and Aemon talk! I promise. I just had an artistic moment and wanted a conversation between two blind melancholic fools. 
> 
> The next chapter will have some elements from the Baelish chapter.
> 
> This family will work out their issues soon, I just find it funny that Aemon's inner Maegon told him that only he can fix what can be fixed now, but he rebukes Rhaegar in adolescent anger.
> 
> Anyway you know the deal, kudos and comments are appreciated, they really help me write faster!


	16. The Calm Before the Storm: Part Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys goes on a court ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiatus is over. I'm back lol.

**Rhaenys**

“Father,” she pleaded softly when she sat across from her father in his temporary vast and hollow solar in the King’s Tower.

 

“Not today, little maester. You have relaxed for a long time, but you are forgetting your duties.” Her heart sank at the kind but amused put down.

 

Rhaenys scowled in response, “My duties? You ordered me to marry _Aems_! Is it not my duty to bond with my betrothed?”

 

Dark indigo eyes that shone like her black amethyst necklace from Asshai widened, “Aems?” He hummed in an amused question. “No matter, as long as you don’t call him Jon like those northerners.”

 

She huffed in annoyance, “I’ve called him Aems all his life.”

 

“Aems in annoyance or aversion, never like that, like you actually care for him. Do you?”

 

“Father,” she blushed, in reality she had no idea. “I do not wish to speak of such things.”

 

There was a shadow of a smile on his face, “Very well,” he turned back to his papers, one had her grandmother’s sigil on it, a three-headed red dragon on black over a red and white castle.

 

Rhaenys frowned, what did the old she-dragon want now? _I have tried to forgive the Queen Dowager, but my feelings have not changed. Not even for Aems_. “What does grandmother want now?”

 

“To express her condolences for being unable to attend the marriage at Winterfell. It seems Lord Stannis has returned home, without my leave,” he sighed. _How could Stannis leave the small council like that?_ “And has ordered all his lords to send him a hundred men.”

 

“Summerhall is a royal demesne in Dorne, the Reach, and the Stormlands, he cannot order grandmother around,” Rhaenys cared not for Rhaella’s predicament, but she will not allow her and Aemon to be at the whim of lords when they come into as Prince and Princess of Summerhall.

 

Rhaegar’s hand stopped her from continuing. His eyes seemed to pry open her soul and bare it to him, “My mother has not been called by Stannis, her letter returned him. She has allied herself with him after she and other Stormlords and Dornish lords spotted more pirates near Cape Wrath, not to mention an idiot pirate attacked Ghaston Grey.”

 

“Ghaston Grey is a ruinous prison. Why?”

 

“I do not know, perhaps the island is in a great position to raid several towns and settlements in the Sea of Dorne.”

 

“Are these pirates fleeing the same as Drak the Fang?”

 

“Mother believes the others are not, but the one who attacked Ghaston Grey was desperate enough. The others have coordinated raids, but more like probes of the defenses.”

 

“Are we looking at a pirate invasion?”

 

“I hope not, Rhaenys, I hope not.” Rhaegar’s voice was strained, he did seem thinner to Rhaenys. Her father has ruled for sixteen years now, rebuilding King’s Landing and the Night’s Watch and rebuilding the realm out of the ashes of Aerys and Robert, increasing the family’s wealth. He has been a great king, but that level of stress can only last so long on a body. “No matter about pirates and my mother, they will be fine, Stannis is an adequate lord and warrior.” He put down the letter, “Septa Asherah tells me you have not been a part of the bride’s duties and events, as a princess you must ingratiate with my subjects.”

 

Rhaenys pouted, “If I must, what will Aemon do?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Why should it not?”

 

“He will be getting a talk from me as well; he has not shown interest in Lady Whent he must greet her personally and attend court. And your cousin Maegon will be here by midday if this letter is correct,” he showed Rhaenys a letter with uncle Aelor’s sigil, the spotted leopard of Santagar argent with a battle axe divided with a one-headed dragon argent, all over a black lake. “The Smallwood brothers are no longer an issue I hope.”

 

“Maegon did what Lord Tully failed to do?”

 

“Lord Tully and _I_ did not care enough for twenty outlaws, till they raided Aelor’s lands and somehow got more numbers.”

 

The Smallwood Brothers were one of the groups that sprouted up against Lord Hoster when he strongly and viciously put down the Targaryen loyalists to side with Lord Stark and Arryn when they married his daughters. Lord Lychester and Smallwood joined hands, but Lord Hoster returned half a year later with several River lords and the Smallwood Brothers’ elder brother who was made heir after their father was hanged by Lord Hoster.

 

Ser Harlon and Thoren and a score of men escaped the Battle of Moder River, a tributary of the Red Fork on Lychester lands.

 

“Now then, I hope you remember that Lady Jayne Bracken is hosting a pleasure ride into the vast Whent lands. I expect you to be there,” Rhaegar’s eyes bore into her. “Enjoying the pleasure of other ladies and relaxing.”

 

“Yes father,” she replied meekly.

 

Rhaenys had felt put out when father ignored her request of where Aems was today. She knew she could not rely on father for long, he said so himself a few days ago. “I’ll help for a while, but like a princess you must charm him yourself. You and Aemon are the future of our house little maester.” Rhaenys did not care for what else he said, court and subterfuge were leagues away. She just needed his help, his help to soothe the ache she felt in her stomach. The ache Maegelle called a fancy.

 

 Since Ser Gunter reports to Rhaegar as a Kingsguard does, he knew all of his children movements. But today father ignored her and told her to relax, not to overthink her marriage, as she knew she was. He knew she had been running herself dry trying to connect with a husband she never wanted but was sure to marry in less than a month.

 

Which was understandable, she was way over her head. Getting married when she had been rejected by Quentyn himself, _that frog_ , or when she had rejected others without a thought to their feelings. And only the gods knew if Aemon cared for her as well. She cared for him as an older sister (she thinks she does at least), but that dream she had made her feel different when their eyes connected.

 

He would look into her eyes with those silver eyes, they were bright and joyous when he was around his friends and courtiers as befitting his princely training, but when he looked at her, those silver eyes were dark as a fog. Smoldering almost and very uncomfortable for that ache appeared, and she felt half a fool and the other half felt like a bubbling idiot of happiness.

 

To marry her own brother in the Targaryen fashion in the Stark’s godswood of Winterfell, among trees with queer faces and people as strange as Aemon could be, was sure to be a blasphemous and joyous affair. It was too much too overwhelming to think about the marriage, not only that Rhaenys really had no experience in religion either. She once tried to pray to a weirwood, but it felt silly to her, the same feeling she had when she prayed to stone or wooden statues of the seven.

 

 _What gave the seven worshippers the right to judge the Old Gods when they worshipped the artificial versions of the Old Gods._ They both worshipped the same thing, the northerners worshipped a tree for nature, and the southerners worshipped hand molded trees of their gods in human likeness. Though septons could pray to crude drawings or stone effigies of the Seven, and she’s seen Aemon pray to the oak heart tree in the Red Keep’s godswood, or even nature itself. _Thinking about religion has made my head hurt_.

 

In any manner Rhaenys was not very religious. She did not understand gods, she understood people though. Gods had no mouth or body or eyes to watch to uncover what their purpose or goal was, only humans did, and that was what Rhaenys usually watched for in court.

 

And as father said once to Aegon, court was where the king is, not the place. So that is how she found herself in a group of about twenty ladies riding in the moors of Whent land with several guards. Rhaenys had the largest entourage, she had all her ladies and all her guards.

 

Talla and Asherah were the best riders among them, Talla gave Arylon a heart attack when she came out in riding leathers and raced forward out the gate. Rhaenys knew Talla hated being confined to the wheelhouse on the journey to Harrenhal. Talla was trained by her younger brother Dickon though her father hated her riding. Asherah once rode from King’s Landing to Oldtown to become a septa after she denounced her marriage to a Celtigar boy.

 

But Rhaenys had limited experience riding upon a horse. Avoiding it as much as possible, and she felt exposed in the riding leathers over her riding dress, they clung to her sharply and the stablehand had been unable to avert his eyes even when Nono gave him a clout on the head.

 

Alongside Talla and Asherah, Rhaenys’ whole household was here except Maegelle and Cujo, who stayed behind; Dalna, Ser Oswell Whent, Valeria, Ser Priam of Sable Lake and Ser Marston Vollfield, Ser Drace, Ser Thancred, and Nono. Jayne Bracken was escorted by her sisters, Catelyn and Bessa, bastard brother Harry Rivers, and there was a Darry girl by the name of Henrietta, the daughter of Ser Willem Darry, once the master at arms for the Red Keep. Henrietta, or as she demanded to be called Etta had Frey cousins, Amerei Frey and her husband Ser Pate of the Blue Fork, and Marissa Frey who wore a scowl on her pinched face and a shawl on her shaved head. Sadly, she had to deal with not only those two, the harlot and bitter Frey, but Cleos Frey, a half Lannister half Frey weakling. Though his wife was very pretty and easy to talk to despite her bitterness of wedding a Frey. And to finish it off a Beatrice of House Butterwell along with several other knightly daughters of Whent and Bracken land.

 

They traveled east down the small brook Harry Rivers boasted of calling Harry’s Brook to Rhaenys, and then turned south toward Butterwell and Uncle Aelor’s lands if they would have ridden for a couple of days.

 

After another thirty minutes came upon a small patch of woods, Etta called the Harroway Woods, the smallest forest on Whent lands named after the house that ruled Harrenhal for the shortest amount of time. “Be on your guard boys!” Oswell commanded her men and the other men, as Jayne Bracken soon to be Whent wheeled her horse into the woods. “Dark things lurk in every forest!”

 

Rhaenys reluctantly rode into the damp forest, breathed out a sigh of annoyance at the bugs and the humidity frizzing her hair. Harry Rivers rode up beside her in his bold swagger. Rhaenys admitted he was comely with fair-hair and an easy smile, but her mind took her to a silver-haired boy whose smiles came hard.

 

“Princess,” he called. “Such wonderful weather on this pleasure ride.”

 

“Yes, wonderful.” She smoothed down the frizzles in her hair.

 

He smiled at her and took a lock of her silver-gold hair. “Fascinating,” he said as she pulled her hair away. “I’ve never seen such a color.”

 

“And I hope you never touch such a color before Oswell smashes your face in.”

 

Harry’s face darkened, then he smiled. “I meant no offense! Bessa always says when I’m curious I don’t think and just go.”

 

She grimaced, _what does this man want from me_? “Curiosity killed the cat.”

 

“But never the horse,” he laughed loudly.

 

“I agree, horses are scared of blood, curiosity would make their heart stop,” Harry did not get her slight and continued on.

 

“I must say, when word reached Stone Hedge of your betrothal to Aemon,” Oswell muttered a ‘Prince Aemon’ from behind them. “My father was not very happy. He has five daughters, and since Jayne had endured herself to Howald he assumed Barbara or Catelyn could do to Howald’s closest companion Aemon.”

 

She side-eyed him, “It came as a surprise too many at court as well.”

 

“We thought you Targaryens were done with marrying brothers and sisters. After Viserys wasn’t married to little Etta or his own sister Daenerys, or even you.” There was some mocking in his voice.

 

“Circumstances made Viserys marry Nessaria.”

 

“Is he truly as mad as they say, even madder than the Mad King?” Harry Rivers had to be the most intrusive person Rhaenys had ever met.

 

“If you wish for your head to stay atop your shoulders you shouldn’t butt into topics you do not understand, bastard.”

 

Harry scoffed in annoyance, “No wonder they call you the Silver Princess,” his welcoming face turned to stone. “No one will ever bed you, not even Aemon.”

 

“Prince Aemon to bastards,” she glared at him. _What was a horse to a dragon_?

 

“Aemon Snow to bastards. And here I thought you might be persuaded to a tumble in the sheets.” Harry rode off before Oswell could draw his sword.

 

“Princess give me the word,” Oswell’s face was dark. “And I’ll teach him some manners. Who raised such a boy? I know bastards with a kinder face than his.”

 

“It is no matter, hardly worth even a word over.” She solemnly says. Rhaenys hadn’t been called the Silver Princess in so long she forgot about it. Men were truly terrible beings, she showed him signs in the beginning of not wanting to talk to him. But he drove on, entered her personal space, mocked her family and thought it would lead her to grace his dirty sheets. Rhaenys wanted to puke.

 

Dalna handed her a flask of mulled wine to ward off the morning chill, but Rhaenys drank to wash out the taste of Harry Rivers in her mouth. Soon enough they came upon a small ridge over a pool that fed Harry’s Brook and few other smaller streams. _The land of rivers_ , she thought.

 

When they rode down and leashed their horses, Ser Pate and Amerei were covered in red mud and water laughing. She smiled at the sight, if only Aemon were here, she might throw mud at his face just for him to chase her. Rhaenys felt her face burn. She shook her head to clear that thought, what was wrong with her and these improper thoughts?

 

Arylon and Dalna were talking when Ser Drace threw the lowborn lady into the pool as well and jumped in after her. Dalna took her name Coldwater to heart and swam away faster than any human she’s ever seen from Drace. Rhaenys laughed at Drace’s face and Ser Thancred’s jape.

 

Oswell went off to berate the young knights with dark japes and left Rhaenys to watch it all by the trees with Talla by herself.

 

When she heard rustling behind her, Rhaenys jumped in surprise. She turned sharply and found Harry Rivers and some Bracken men carrying some rabbits and squirrels, Harry gave her a disgusted look and she gave him blank face devoid of emotion. He must have thought she was worried about his look for he smiled, if only he knew how little she cared for him.

 

“I brought luncheon!” He announced to the party. Talla rubbed Rhaenys shoulders in comfort.

 

“We can ride back princess; you do not have to stay the whole ride.”

 

“Father told me to be here, so I must. Making connections is difficult, but I will do so.”

 

When the small feast was done near an hour later Rhaenys took her sit by Etta Darry and Bessa Bracken, they were speaking of handsome lords their fathers could marry them to.

 

“I say Lord Edmure is probably the marriage my father is working for me,” Bessa said. “He can’t deny the power father has by marrying into the Whents.”

 

“Or the Freys,” Etta said with a frown.

 

“Piss on the Freys, Etta!” Bessa exclaimed, Amerei turned her head from at another campfire, her pretty pinched face was more pinched by her thin mouth. “Freys have too many people in those damn towers, I say.”

 

“Then me, I’m a contender,” Etta defended. “I am from a staunchly Targaryen loyalist family, the third strongest house in the Riverlands, and my mother was a Mooton.”

 

“Bah! I think none of you have the chops for the floppy fish,” Harry Rivers sat down across from Rhaenys. Talla who was there with Rhaenys put a hand on her lap. “What do you say Silver Princess? Do you think Bessa or Etta will make Lord Floppy Fish not flop.” Harry had a normal laugh but everything he did seem disgusting to Rhaenys.

 

“I’ll say, I’m not from the Riverlands,” she said tactfully.

 

Harry’s gaze was upon her chest, “You are a princess! Surely your father must talk to you of his bannerman. Are you not on the small council?”

 

The subtle mocking reminded her too much of Cersei, “I am goodman.”

 

“Then you should know all about what marriages will be good for others. How about me? Who should I marry?” His eyes looked into hers, and she realized once again, he thought this was courting. He still wanted her.

 

She rose, blood rushed in her ears, there was some commotion by Arylon near the perimeter, but she blocked it out. “Why should you matter? You are just Bracken’s bastard not heir, that’s your cousin Hendry is it not?” Harry stood as well. “A good match for you Goodman Harry is the tavern wench at your father’s brothel, you can marry your father’s leftovers, you don’t deserve any woman above your station.”

 

“Princess,” Bessa called with a hand on her arm. “Forgive my brother, please.”

 

"What is your guard doing?" Etta said, but no one listened.

 

“In fact, are you sure he’s your brother. I’ve seen your father, where did the blonde come from Harry, you could be a farmer’s bastard for all we know.”

 

The camp was silent except for the talking by Arylon and the crackling of the fire. Harry Rivers’ face was as red as the sun and he stood on strong legs. He looked ready to spit rage and kill her, she stood her ground. _Don’t pull the dragon’s tail if you weren’t ready for the fire_ , Rhaenys thought. That should be a parable.

 

“If you were a man, I would challenge you!” He blustered out with a dark glower.

 

“If you were a man, we would not be here yelling at each other,” she retorted.

 

Harry fumed and looked ready to scream, when Arylon ran over from where he was making a commotion, “Princess! Ser Oswell! A rider! One of the king’s outriders.” Everyone’s attention was torn from the scene Harry had made, to the outrider on the ground with three arrows in his back. “He burst past me half dead!”

 

“Is he alive?” Oswell questioned, Arylon gave a frightened shaky nod. Ser Drace and Ser Thancred formed up around her, as Marston, Priam, and Oswell went to the outrider. She followed after them.

 

“Ser? What happened?” Priam came to crouch by him.

 

The man’s pale and gaunt face was terrible to behold, “Men. Too many of them. No banners.”

 

“Who were they? How many ser?” Priam asked. Rhaenys noticed the growing pool of blood spreading from underneath the outrider.

 

The outrider took a labored breath, “I…I…I don’t know. Heading this…way…” The outrider took his last breath.

 

“Seven hells,” Priam whispered to no one. He turned a stoic eye on Oswell, who in turn studied her. “Ser?”

 

“Princess,” Oswell drew his sword, along with all her guards. “Saddle up, there’s a few leagues between here and Harrenhal.”

 

She nodded, the Bracken and Darry and Frey parties were scrambling in panic. “Don’t panic,” she ordered. “Ride, we must ride!” She pulled up a Bracken guard trying to pack the food. “Leave everything behind! Ride!”

 

They people stopped fretting and ran to their mounts, she mounted up and saw Oswell speaking to Nono. Oswell ran to his horse and mounted it. “Princess go!”

 

She watched Nono ride hard in the opposite direction, “Where is Nono going?”

 

“His duty!” Oswell whacked the hind of her horse and she fought for control as they sped off after Talla’s horse, with Oswell hot on her back. Rhaenys hoped that Nono would be safe. Though he was the best rider of her father’s guards she hoped Oswell wasn’t sending him into danger.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for the changes I was making was a prologue and adding some more details to previous chapters. The prologue was written last year but I thought it gave too much information. If you all want me to post it let me know, if not I won't make any changes to Stormbringer. I was planning on making the Blackfyre plot more linear, and adding some chapters to Littlefingers' plot that will take place over the next chapters.
> 
> For loyal readers thank you for being able to keep up with my mercurial bullshit of not liking and liking my writing!
> 
> Also read my new oneshot "The Smallest Council"!
> 
> Next chapter we will see Maegon and the Smallwood Brothers fight leading up to what happens in the end of this chapter. Then Aemon to the rescue two chapters from now!
> 
> You know the deal, kudos and comments are appreciated, they really help me write faster!


	17. The Bloodbath and the She-Wolves: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard Lonmouth, the Knight of Skulls and Kisses hunts down the Smallwood Brothers with Ser Maegon the Salamander.

The party had tracked the tracks down into Loth’s Woods, a small wood of four acres, across the muddy cobblestone road called the Butter road by Ector, who said Whitewalls used to stand in the area. After passing through Loth’s woods they tracked the tracks down to a tributary of the Sable Lance, a smaller river from the Blackwater Rush and God’s Eye that flowed into Sable Lake, Ector called the stream Sable Creek. Richard thought it was aptly named. Everything in Prince Aelor’s lands not remnants of the Butterwell’s had darkly named landmarks, similar to Duskendale, he found.

 

The sun streaked down between the trees as his horse rested in the shade of a willow tree. For the second time, or _was it the hundredth time_ , Richard thought in good humor, he wondered why he was here sweating under his tabard, gambeson, and hauberk. He pried off his coif from his sweaty brown hair streaked in grey here and there.

 

The heavy wine-filled skin on his thigh was heavy and sure and most of all itching, and Richard’s throat was parched. _No_! No, no, he urged his hand from the skin with the strength of a thousand knights, but his mind drifted to the wine sitting cool in the flask. He forced his mind back to his original train of thought.

 

King Rhaegar, Richard’s oldest friend and a source of much consternation and frustration, had sent his cousin Ser Maegon the Salamander and Richard west for the headwaters of the Blackwater Rush and Sable Lance, to track down the Smallwood Brothers.

 

The Smallwood Brothers for the last decade and a half, the brothers who the band was named after, Harlon and Thoren had been a gift and a thorn in the side of many. A thorn as rejecting the authority of Lord Tully as lord paramount makes them in opposition to any authority wielded by the iron throne. But they have also been very helpful to the smallfolk in these lands watered by the forks of the Blackwater Rush and west of it, and sometimes east to the Sable Lance and the Kingsroad. Killing more harmful bandits and robber knights, and catching and returning harried herd animals, and killing packs of wolves.

 

In recent years Lord Hoster had given up on hunting down and hanging the remnants of the outlaw group of knights, which many smallfolk say is only about six to twenty men altogether. Harlon the leader was fearful of Hoster’s ire, when if provoked would certainly spell their deaths. As he did after the Battle beneath the Walls, when Lord Hoster set upon Lord Lychester and Harlon’s and Thoren’s now dead brother Humfrey, when they joined hands to rebel against Hoster’s mercurial loyalties at the Battle of Moder River, where Lord Lychester held the bridge and surrendered it to Ser Maynard’s fourth charge, and the Smallwood Brothers were butchered at a the crossing half a league down river where only fifty men escaped the butchery of Ser Robin Ryger.

 

Suddenly, as sudden as a summer storm catches a farmer unaware, the brothers Harlon and Thoren who had done the same act of helping the smallfolk and hiding in their small cave, had set off east and burned two landed knights fields and killed ten smallfolk and raped a girl of fifteen. Ser Hollis and ten men had tracked them down the Rush towards a confluence with the Sable Lance. There the Brothers set themselves on Hollis and killed him and all his men albeit a squire of ten. The squire dashed to the walls of Sable Lake and a letter was sent from there to Riverrun and King's Landing.

 

Then they descended to terrorize and cause trouble up and down the lands lorded over by the king’s uncle and master of coin, Prince Aelor. Though the real reason Rhaegar was eager to end them now, was because they were very close to the lands bounded by the immense shadow of Harrenhal. The location where the king and numerous members of the royal family where travelling for a wedding.

 

In accordance with the king’s word as law, Maegon, Richard, a pompous landed knight, three score of men-at-arms of numerous households and ten squires set off west for Sable Lake. Ten of the men were of Prince Aelor’s personal household he did not send with Princess Rhaenys or keep in King’s Landing for his own protection, twenty were of Richard’s own household and two squires of his, the brothers Mayric and Cador, grandchildren of one his uncle’s (who hoped Richard would make one of them his heir), and another score was from the personal small band of the landed knight Ser Eladon Argaris of Peafowl Tower, all twenty-one men all eager for glory. _And arrogant about it_.

 

Mayric and Cador, Rischard’s new squires since he knighted Bryce Caron a year past, joined Richard as watched from atop his horse the hunter Maegon recruited from the village beneath Sable Lake, Ector, examined some tracks suggesting the outlaws forded here at Sable Creek and rode off north. _In the direction of Harrenhal_.

 

Though another set of tracks went northwest on this side of Sable Creek toward the confluence of Sable Lance and the Blackwater Rush meet and then Sable Lake. Ser Eladon and his cronies were adamant these were the true route to take, and Ector stood standfast by his original judgement it is a false track, and the outlaws forded here to ride north. North away from Prince Aelor’s lands and Sable Lake, north to Harrenhal. Where Rhaegar and Prince Aegon were. _The two men he would die for_.

 

“They’s went north, milord,” Ector said once again, nervous eyes shifting from Argaris and Maegon. “I’s sure, milord.”

 

When Richard looked from the squat and hairy man called Ector, who had to be a quarter Ibbenese to Maegon, he saw the Salamander’s Valyrian blue gaze firmly affixed upon Argaris. There was a look to those eyes that reminded Richard of Rhaegar. Maegon may call himself the Salamander but there was a fiery and powerful dragon beneath his sandy blonde hair. “Ector. Ford now and see where those tracks lead,” Maegon’s voice was icy.

 

Argaris laughed, “You trust a peasant over a lord, Ser?” Argaris’s voice still held the tilt of the Free Cities his grandfather came from, a mongrel of Braavos and Lyseni heritage. A heritage of penny chasers and slavers, a queer mix. He was dressed in a barely used gambeson with steel plate here and there, a gorget a rondel, a steel skirt, not a full suit but enough protection Richard noted. His surcoat was a fine raiment of velvet, adorned with shield bearing a violet peacock on a divided field of silver and pink.

 

The boy’s arrogance and wealth tickled at Richard, it reminded him faintly of another man at court, but who he could not put a name to the face. He was not very important anyhow, some slimy money gatherer and owned one or three brothels. He had a pointy beard and was short.

 

 _Petry Baelish_ , he thought in triumph, that was the short man’s name. He came down from the Vale with the former Hand Jon Arryn. Richard wondered if he would return to his small Fingers and sheep. A breath of laughter escaped Richard’s nose as he realized he was thinking of courtly matters while sweltering in the late summer sun and was in the middle of an argument.

 

“Ector has hunted for me and mine since I was weaned,” Maegon forced a smile and the dragon returned to his pit.

 

“He is rather old now, eyes have gone bad, I say. More tracks this way,” Argaris sniffs. There was something off about the young man Richard’s mind could not place.

 

“Ser,” Mayric called from his filly. “Why don’t we split. Ser Maegon heads north, and Ser Eladon heads east? We will lose them at this pace.”

 

It was a grand idea, a grand idea when you knew the numbers of enemies you faced. Older rumors of the Brothers said they had six to twenty men; newer reports say fifty men ride with them. Though Richard’s seasoned mind of war and conflict felt that was what Argaris wanted, he wanted to split them up. For reasons his mind couldn’t comprehend.

 

The boy reminded him of his Brilliant Prince, Aegon. The easy smile with his companions, the arrogance of sure safety, the thoughts of a young man believing he was invincible, and the pompous attitude. Though Aegon had something Argaris lacked: a brain.

 

Another thought niggled at his mind. The Brothers know they are being tracked. If he was one of the outlaws, he would either lose the pursuers or set up an ambush.  

 

“Maegon, Eladon,” he called when his patience had finally run thin. “We ride north.”

 

Argaris face shifted in stubborn anger, “ _North_? Why look at all these tracks and all those tracks, more here, less there.”

 

“That’s not how tracking works for men Argaris,” he tried to keep the belittlement out of his voice. His hand inched to his flask. _Gods he needed a sip, just a sip_. “They could have backtracked and given a look of more men riding east. But an expert hunter says they rode north.”

 

“We could split,” Argaris sniffs in his pompous way again. “Me and my twenty men go east and win glory for ourselves.” He swung himself upon his fine black courser, his men followed suit.

 

“And if you are ambushed?”

 

“More the pity to you. You’ll miss the action, and we’ll take the glory and praise.” He turned his horse to ride east. “I’m sure six men will be a trouble to twenty men.”

 

Maegon interrupted, “No one gave you leave, Ser Eladon.”

 

The landed knight turned his horse slowly around, “I heed only one’s words. The king’s word. Who are you to give me leave?”

 

“The king’s cousin. And the man he tasked with capturing and hanging the brothers.”

 

“The salamander threatens the peacock,” he chuckled.

 

“Ser Eladon, you do not want this. Ser Maegon perhaps we should let Ser Eladon leave, more land to cover.” Richard’s instincts were against this.

 

Maegon and Eladon stared each other down, till Maegon kissed his teeth in annoyance. “I won’t be travelling to wherever your piss poor tower is to deliver your bones to your mother.” He wheeled his horse around and turned to ford Sable Creek with him, forty-five horses followed.

 

Richard, Mayric, and Cador watched. He didn’t hear Argaris pull up beside him.

 

“See you soon, with the body of Harlon and Thoren Smallwood,” he rode off with his twenty men.

 

Once both parties were a respectable distance away, Richard hastily untied his skin of wine. Fumbled with the cap and strings, but once it was off, he drank deep the deep bitter red wine. It stung his mouth and brought tears of relief to his eyes.

 

Mayric ignored his drinking with a patience of a boy used to failings in teachers, but Cador had that helpless look Bryce often gave Richard once upon a time. _Before my drinking had destroyed the innocence of my very first_ squire, he though tin disgust. A sense of shame rose in Richard as it usually did when he let his vice show.

 

It did not begin as bad as this, one second he was a drinker here and there, then the shame and images of Rhaegar’s Rebellion plagued his mind constantly. By the time ten years had past of the war, drinking had become a habitual habit he could never cease.

 

“Must you drink, ser?” Cador asks the same thing every time Richard sneaks a gulp. Always in that sad and helpless tone only an eight-year-old could perfect.

 

Mayric was twelve and wiser, “If he could he would.”

 

With another blow to his nearly already gone pride as a knight, they took off after Maegon and the rest of Richard’s men. Ten minutes they caught up with the party and was surprised to see they were stopped. Stopped in a small wooded valley. The ridges were not steep but wooded. Easily enough to ride up and down upon a horse.

 

He took a subtle sip from his skin as he rode up, though it did not go unnoticed. Mayric and Cador saw with frowns, and his captain of the guards, Albett gave a look of worry. He asked Albett why they were stopped.

 

“The tracks grow smaller here, milord,” Albett had a suspicious look in his eyes. “Perhaps that Argaris knight was right…”

 

Another niggling hit Richard’s wine muddled train of thought. _No, no, no, it cannot be_! Richard wheeled his horse in a jumpy circle, eyes flashing on the tips of the hills around them.

 

“Milord? What is wrong?” Albett worried.

 

“Ser?” Cador said again.

 

There a flash of steel in the shadow of the oak! “Cador behind me! _To arms_! _AMBUSH_!” Richard screamed as he drew his sword as the first arrow pierced Albett above his old and used gorget.

 

Then it was chaos. Many men, too many men to be six to twenty flooded over the hills. Archers took down many of their man with accurate shots. By the time the outlaws had charged into them, four or five men were down.

 

Richard killed one with a disemboweling slash as he charged madly down a ridge. Another outlaw broke his horse’s leg after crashing down the other hill. Mayric was on foot with Cador behind him, wielding a spear. Richard kept an eye on them, he rode around them in a protective circle.

 

Men were dying all around Richard, blood flowed freely, and his head swam. From the heat under his mail coif or the lack of wine in his body, he knew not.

 

After he killed one particularly strong and capable man, a huge and hairy man on an even bigger and shaggy horse Richard had ever seen charged him. The man was old and the brown hair on top of his head had gone almost completely grey and bald, but his eyebrows were the bushiest he had ever seen and his beard was to his stomach, long, bristly, and grey. He held a long axe and a shield; the long axe was sharp and dangerous enough that Richard yelled to Cador to throw him his shield as he parried every slash.

 

The old and veteran outlaw never gave him a chance to strap his shield, with one hard swing of his long axe, like he intended to cut down a tree, sent Richard flying from his seat and onto the ground of the small valley hard.

 

The old man dismounted and circled Richard as he rose like a wolf. “I am called Bushman Krents, you are a knight yes? I’ve met your type numerous times. All fell to my long axe.”

 

Gods he needed another drink, “I am Ser Richard Lonmouth, the Knight of Skulls and Kisses.”

 

Recognition crossed Krents face, “Lonmouth? A former squire of the king?”

 

“That’d be me,” Richard decided to take a long gulp of his wine. “Having second thoughts?”

 

Krents laugh was very brief and mocking, “No, I have orders and you as well. I’ve lived long and I’m ready, are you?”

 

“You are a very well-spoken outlaw,” Richard eyed the breastplate underneath Krents’ cloak. A golden lion head peeked out to stab Richard in the eye. _A golden lion_? “And well-armored.”

 

Bushman Krents looked down and pulled his cloak around him tighter, “You wasn’t suppose to see that.”

 

Richard smirk, “Now I hear the smallfolk in you,” he charged and raised his sword to cut Krents in half. Krents blocked it and parried it and struck low. Richard side-stepped it and parried the return to his shoulder. Krents had a longer reach and the long axe extended far, but Richard had trained alongside the Kingsguard, the legendary knights of the Seven Kingdoms under Aerys and Rhaegar, he doubted an outlaw had the same training.

 

He swiped a lazy long arc at the feet of Krents, as expected instead of leaping back, he brought down his long axe to parry it. Though he had skill, his weapon was poorly made, the shaft was wood, not iron, and so at the last moment Richard put his whole weight into the swipe and cut the iron axe head off the shat of his long axe.

 

What Richard did not expect was when the old and hairy man noticed his lack of a weapon, he charged with ham-sized fists. A good punch across Richard’s cheek and nose had him reeling to the ground like a dropped sack. His eyes went dark, but he forced them open fast enough to see Krents holding his sword.

 

“The king taught you poorly, Lonmouth,” he raised the sword above his head, Richard gave him no chance to swing down. He rose swiftly on unstable feet and reached for the grip of the longsword.

 

He partially missed, his right hand grabbed the grip as he intended, but his left wrapped around the razor-sharp edges of the sword. “He taught me enough,” with a savage and wine-drunk strength Richard ripped the sword from Krents’ hand, ripping apart his own left hand in the process. “ _Mayric! Now!_ ”

 

The boy came from behind Richard with a brutal thrust into the shoulder of the burly old man. He fell with a scream, clutching the shaft of the spear. “Cador get the rope, he has on good armor, he must be high up in the ranks.”

 

As Mayric and Cador tied up the old outlaw, Richard surveyed the field, the battle was winding down, dead men of all backgrounds littered the ground. More outlaws than king’s men, but we had sustained many deaths and injuries. Upon the small hill of the valley, Maegon was still ahorse with numerous men on their knees before him, as other men tied them up.

 

As he reached down to grab his skin, his left hand burned in an unbearable pain. He fell to his knees, for a distracting pain so he didn’t scream. _Fool_ , he thought of himself. “Cador, get my horse.”

 

“Where did it go, milord?” Richard looked up in pain, the pain blurring his eyes he could barely see. “I’ll find another knight’s, milord.” The boy ran off. Mayric had already untied Richard’s flask. “Drink, then we’ll clean.” 

 

The wound was bad, his hand was split open down to the smaller bones, and muscle was torn asunder. Richard knew as an older man, this hand would never be the same if it wasn't amputated. But his well-being was second to the well-being of his king, and his bright prince.

 

“Be quick, I need to be upon the hill, I need to question the prisoners.” Mayric and Cador helped him with cleaning the wound and wrapping it in clean wrappings. By the time he dawned the hill with Krents behind him, the sun close to setting.

 

Three prisoners were still on their knees, a fourth was dead, or dying by the lifelessness of him.

 

“Mayric, put him there,” he pointed to where the other three were in a line. “Ser Maegon,” he called.

 

The Salamander turned to him with a solemn face. “Nothing about this has been right since we rode out here, Ser Richard.”

 

Richard nodded. In court Richard was firmly in Aegon’s corner and Maegon Aemon’s. The brothers don’t get along well, but that never affected them. This was their first duty together, but not their first time hunting down outlaws. Numbers don’t fluctuate this much, six to twenty was a fluctuation they could work with. But thirty-one dead and four injured was nowhere near the numbers they were given.

 

He presented his captive, “This man is Bushman Krents. He is high up, check his armor.”

 

Maegon nodded to Ector, who had somehow survived the conflict nary a scratch. The old hunter moved aside Krents’ cloak. “Bloody, golden lion heads on him as well?” Richard was surprised.

 

Maegon sent the old outlaw a searching look. “This mean has Lannister armor, and those two have on Targaryen armor as well.” He told Richard, he turned his full attention on the captives. “Tell me now, who do you serve? Where is the Smallwood brothers? Where is Aegon Frey the Bloodborn? Where did you all get the armor?”

 

Krents laughed and stopped when one of Maegon’s men dug a hand into his wound. “I’ll never tell.”

 

“Do you want to be tortured that badly?” Maegon turned from Krents to look upon the three men, but on closer look they were barely men, boys with peach fuzz. “How about them?”

 

Krents stayed silent, but Richard noticed his look on one of the boys. A boy with bushy eyebrows, and shaggy brown hair. The hair and eyebrows were the same. “Maegon, start with that boy.” He pointed him out.

 

The boy looked scared and shocked, Krents put his head down in shame. “Grandfather? Help!”

 

“I’s don’t buy your threat boy.” Krents spat at Maegon.

 

“it’s no threat. I have people I must protect, and you are endangering them.”

 

The old man laughed, “They will all die. War is coming for us all.”

 

Richard did not like torture and realized the horrors of it, but also realized the uses of it. Though he felt there needed to be clarification before they ruined boy. “Wait, Maegon. Can we speak.” Gesturing his head away from the captives.

 

They walked slightly away from the ears of the outlaws, “We know where they are going.”

 

“Who? This has never felt right Richard. I sense something else is going on.”

 

“The Smallwood Brothers. They are heading north, and we were right on their tails, of course they sacrificed their men to do what they are planning.”

 

“And what are they planning? Before you came over, I learned these boys were just conscripted into the Brotherhood’s ranks. Thirty boys, thirty boys who idolized these outlaws. And thirty boys dead.”

 

Richard was stupefied, “We killed boys?” he felt a horror creep up his back stronger than his throbbing hand.

 

Maegon’s lord face had dropped, sadness spread over his angular features. “Yes, thirty boys are dead. I’m to blame, and so is the Smallwood brothers.” He turned to head back to the captives, “Our more pressing matter is that we have twenty or so real outlaws out there heading north towards Harrenhal, where the royal family is currently staying.”

 

When they returned, Maegon was proactive, “Ector, I will be writing a letter. At all haste ride to Harrenhal and deliver it. Try not to cause a panic. Richard, send a few of your men to track down Argaris, preferably slower men and to guard these captives. The rest of us will ride at all haste north.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found writing this chapter to be funny, because I think Lem is Richard, so him hunting down outlaws was a secret joke of mine.
> 
> We are getting away from Aemon and Rhaenys chapters every chapter. Now our other POV characters are getting screen-time, hence why this took so long because I wanted to give Richard character. Let me know how I did!
> 
> Next chapter: Tyrion Lannister is caught in the crossfire; then Harras Harlaw witnesses the crowning of a king; and then we get a wedding on a snowy day in Winterfell.


End file.
